


Funny Face

by Lbilover



Series: Funny Face Series [1]
Category: The Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fashion & Couture, Light Angst, M/M, Modeling, Photography, Romance, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-27
Updated: 2016-12-27
Packaged: 2018-09-12 16:15:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 46,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9080074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lbilover/pseuds/Lbilover
Summary: Sean is a fashion photographer, Elijah works in a book shop. Never the twain shall meet? Not so!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is based on one of my all-time favorite Fred Astaire movies, Funny Face, which costarred the luminous Audrey Hepburn (as Fred's love interest) and the oh-so-wonderful Kay Thompson, cabaret performer and author of the Heloise books, in her one and only, totally smashing, scene-stealing movie appearance. Please note that some of the dialogue is lifted directly from the movie, with slight modifications here and there. I diverge from the strict movie plot line a bit as the story progresses. Also, while the movie was made in 1957, I have set it in the present day. Fred's character in the movie was based on the famous photographer Richard Avedon, who did the still photography for the movie.

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v368/biinfc/Funny%20Face/?action=view&current=funny-face-wallpaper.png)

 

They’d been driving around Greenwich Village for forty-five minutes at least, the meter on the taxi kept going up, up, up, and the cab driver clearly thought he was nuts. Sean mentally shrugged. He was used to people thinking he was nuts—he worked in the fashion industry, didn’t he? Besides, this was Cate Blanchett’s doing, not his. He was just along for the ride—both metaphorically and literally.

Cate, who occupied the taxi in front of Sean’s, was looking for someplace with ‘pizzazz’ to do a photo shoot, and she wouldn’t be satisfied until she found it. The editor-in-chief of _Quality Magazine_ was always looking for places or people or things with ‘pizzazz’ and it was her unerring eye for that elusive property that was the reason for the magazine’s continued success at a time when keeping a fashion magazine afloat was no easy matter. It was also the reason for Sean’s steadfast devotion to a woman who could, under the best of circumstances, drive a saint to drink. And Sean was no saint.

Suddenly her taxi swerved into the curb and screeched to a halt. Pizzazz, it appeared, had been found at last in a store that proclaimed in all capital letters across the top of the display window **PHILOSOPHY** and **LITERATURE**. Bingo!

“Pull in here,” Sean directed the cab driver, who followed suit.

He paid the cabbie, wincing a little as he emptied his wallet of bills but rather looking forward to presenting Cate with the receipt for reimbursement, then gathered up his beloved 8x10 Deardorff camera that occupied the rest of the back seat—his love affair with the Deardorff was the most lasting and dependable he’d ever had—and climbed out of the cab. A flurry of activity swirled around him as the two other taxis disgorged their occupants—Cate, Sean’s assistants Dom and Billy, and the makeup artist Miranda—along with a panoply of equipment lights, props, makeup, wardrobe, and one gorgeous male model, Orlando Bloom, to be the focus of it all.

“Perfect, absolutely perfect,” Sean heard Cate’s distinctive smoky alto voice exclaim. “The place positively reeks with atmosphere. All right everyone, let’s get to work!”

Atmosphere? Well, that was one way to put it, Sean thought as he crossed the sidewalk and walked down a short flight of brick steps to the entrance of the shop, which was called, according to the large red letters stenciled at the bottom of the none-too-clean display window, _Embryo Concepts_. On the door to the shop in smaller black letters it said, _New and Used Books Bought and Sold_. An antique globe, a steel-engraved print of what looked like a Roman mausoleum, and several impressive leather-bound tomes with ornate typescript occupied the display area. 

The store beyond, from what Sean could make out, was dark and dreary, meaning it would to be hell to light.

But what Cate wanted, Cate got, and Sean was expert at finding ways to make things work. You had to be if you were employed by _Quality Magazine_ and wanted to keep your job. So he simply shrugged and to the cheerfully inapt tinkle of the doorbell followed Cate and the rest of the jostling, chattering crew inside the shop, which was precisely as stygian as it had appeared from the outside.

“It’s movingly dismal,” Cate declared with satisfaction. “We couldn’t have done better if we’d designed it ourselves.”

“Orlando looks smarter already,” Sean joked.

“Hey,” Orlando protested, and Sean bit back a grin. Orli was a nice guy and a hard worker, but about as dim a bulb as the ones in the shop, which was why Cate had suggested this outing to the Village in the first place. The presence on set at the magazine studio of an Itsabushi statue and a string quartet playing Beethoven hadn’t sufficed to make Orlando look the part that Cate intended for him—a guy wearing great clothes who wasn’t actually interested in great clothes but in the arts and culture, which was the theme for the next issue of the magazine.

Orlando’s attempts to relate to the Itsabushi had been painful to watch, and when Sean had asked him what he was thinking, Orli had replied that he was thinking the shoot was taking too long and he wouldn’t have time to stop at the gym and work out before his dinner date that evening. At which point Cate, who was utterly unflappable under any circumstances, had gotten the distant look that meant inspiration was at hand, and abruptly announced that they would go on location.

_Embryo Concepts_ was the perfect name for the bookstore, Sean decided. There was something distinctly womb-like about the interior. The owner clearly didn’t believe in God’s abjuration to ‘let there be light’, because other than a low wattage chandelier and a few randomly placed equally low wattage wall sconces, that useful commodity was practically non-existent. Even the row of windows in the back wall had frosted panes.

Sean carefully leaned his camera attached to its tripod against a display case, and looked around him, already mentally gauging light levels and shooting angles and assessing the best locations to pose Orlando. He ignored the bustle as Dom and Billy started setting up the lights, and Miranda set down the large Vuitton makeup case and hung up the garment bag that held the other suits Orli would be wearing for the shoot. The model’s dark coloring, particularly his nearly black hair, would provide a definite challenge. But Sean happened to enjoy challenges, and they frequently resulted in the most spectacular photos.

The shop was long and narrow, with a circular staircase in the center that descended out of sight, presumably to a basement or store rooms below. Walnut floor-to-ceiling shelves crammed full of a motley assortment of books lined the walls; the bottom shelf was constructed deeper and taller to accommodate the oversized books, many of them with ornate leather bindings. Antique hand-colored horticultural prints covered what open wall space was available, along with some funky looking African masks. Four large rectangular refectory tables set at intervals around the room held more books neatly stacked, and two spinning metal display racks were filled with shabby paperbacks. An even shabbier but comfortable looking couch with fringed flower pattern fabric occupied the space beneath the frosted-glass windows. Beside it stood a tall gilt pedestal mirror. As far as Sean could tell, there wasn’t a computer in the place; an old-fashioned cash register that probably belonged in the Smithsonian held pride of place on the checkout counter.

It was the sort of shop that some might call quaint or charming, a throwback to the ‘good old days’; to Sean it was simply cluttered, and so gloomy that it was impossible to read the titles of the books from where he stood. Curious to know what subject matters were covered by a shop called _Embryo Concepts_ , he walked to the nearest shelf. A wooden library ladder on wheels stood in his way. Putting out a hand, he absentmindedly shoved it, with unexpected results.

“Fuuuuuuuuck!” A startled voice cried out over the clatter of the ladder’s wheels as it rattled sideways, and books cascaded to the floor. Everyone stopped what they were doing and stared.

Oh shit. There was a person attached to the ladder.

Sean hurried after it. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said remorsefully, grabbing the ladder to steady it. “I didn’t realize anyone was up there. Are you all right?”

“Um, yes, thanks. Can I help you?” The owner of the voice, a young man in faded denim jeans and an equally faded black tee shirt, hastily climbed down. “Would you like a book?” he asked.

“No, no, Orlando. Stand over here. No, here. Yes, that’s right. Perfect!”

Distracted, the young man forgot his question and stared past Sean, his already well-opened blue eyes opening wider with astonishment. Sean could hardly blame him under the circumstances. It was as if a flock of birds of paradise had invaded a crow’s nest.

Cate, in a form-fitting scarlet pants suit with lipstick and nail polish to match, had Orlando posed dramatically at the top of the spiral staircase. His superbly cut white Ian McKellen suit was set off by a carelessly draped teal silk scarf.

“Who are those…?” the young man began, and then, as he took in Dom and Billy, who were plugging in lights, pushed around Sean and rushed up to Cate, saying quickly, “May I help you?”

Cate looked him up and down in her inimitable fashion. She replied coolly, “Thank you, but we have everything we need,” and turned back to Orli. She adjusted the drape of his scarf, while Miranda fussed with his hair, artfully disarranging it.

The young man turned back to Sean. “Would you tell me what this is all about?” he asked.

“We’ll only be a minute,” Sean said, as he removed his sports coat and dropped it on the dusty floor. “We’re just going to take a few pictures.”

“Pictures? What sort of pictures?” A wary, even suspicious, note had entered the young man’s voice.

“Are you the owner?” Cate shot at him.

“No, my uncle Mr. Holm is the owner.” The young man drew himself up to his full height, which was unimpressive in the extreme. He was even shorter than Sean, and a good six inches shorter than Cate. “But I work here, and I’m in charge in his absence.”

Cate, having elicited from his answer that he was (in her opinion) a Person of Little or No Importance, returned her attention to Orlando. “Miranda, I want a little more powder on Orli’s chin. It’s too shiny.”

“I’m Elijah Wood. Can you help me?” he asked Sean, who had picked up one of the lights to move it to the far side of the spiral staircase. His blue eyes were beseeching, but Sean had spent too many years resisting beseeching looks from aspiring models, male and female, to be affected even by eyes as large and blue and appealing as Elijah Wood’s.

He set down the light. “How do you do? I’m Sean Astin,” he said, and smiled, turning on the charm. He frequently had to undertake the role of feather-smoother in Cate’s wake. Tact and finesse were, alas, foreign words to her. There was a very good reason she was known throughout the fashion world as ‘Bulldozer Cate’.

“What about these pictures?” he persisted.

“Well, we’re using the shop as a background for some fashion pictures for _Quality Magazine_ ,” Sean replied easily. If you acted like something was no big deal then others did, too.

Usually.

But at Sean’s reply, the smile instantaneously vanished and was replaced by a frown of distaste. Uh-oh, Sean thought. He’d encountered people like this before, to whom the words ‘fashion’ and ‘models’ were equivalent with ‘degenerate’ and ‘pond scum’.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t let you,” Elijah said. “My uncle doesn’t approve of fashion magazines. He says they’re chichi and an unrealistic approach to self-impressions as well as economics.”

“We’re going to have trouble,” remarked Cate, coming over to where he and Elijah stood. “He’s a thinker.”

“He’s also a talker,” Sean said dryly, moving away, but Elijah followed him, and went on in a firm, no nonsense voice, “I must ask you to leave, you have no right...”

Sean took a seat on the edge of the closest bookshelf and picked up a book. He started flipping through it. It appeared to be about something called ‘categorical syllogism’.

Cate flung her arms wide. “We throw ourselves at your mercy,” she said dramatically. “Haven’t poor helpless people like us a right to make a living?”

Elijah’s gaze touched on Orli, who was engrossed in reading a comic book he’d pulled from his back pocket. _Minute Men from Mars_ , it said above a lurid illustration of a creepy looking alien looming over a busty red-head in a ripped blouse that showed a lot of cleavage, and a skin-tight skirt with a slit up the back. Sean didn’t have to be psychic to know what conclusions Elijah was drawing from that inspiring sight.

“I’ve asked you to leave,” he said. “That is my right. If the rights of the individual are not respected by the group, the group itself cannot exist for long.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Cate demanded of Sean.

Sean shrugged. “Something like ‘do unto others as you would have others do unto you’?” he ventured, closing the book.

“Well, we’re only going to do unto you for a moment,” Cate said, “and you have my word for it that it’s no more than we would do unto ourselves.” She gazed around the shop, clearly considering the debate at an end, and then clapped her hands briskly. “Dom, Billy, I want you to rearrange these books. They look too much alike. They’re too pat. Mix them up.”

Dom and Billy hopped to it, abandoning what they’d been doing to tackle the project. Like a pair of hyperactive squirrels, they started pulling books randomly from one shelf and sticking them on another, or dumping them on the tables and sofa.

Elijah stared in appalled horror, his eyes wider than ever. “No, don’t mix them up!” he cried, his voice elevating several registers as he ran up behind Dom and Billy, who ignored him. “The books on that shelf deal with empiricism, the ones on the shelf below it with materialism, and those over there with psychopiscoparalysm!” 

He clutched at his already spiky hair. “Oh look, put them back!” He turned desperate eyes to Sean. “Please talk to her. It’ll take me hours to re-shelve everything.”

“One never talks to Cate Blanchett,” Sean said. “One only listens.” He wasn’t unsympathetic to Elijah’s plight, but one might as well try to stop an incoming tidal wave.

Miranda had finished touching up Orli’s face, and he’d reluctantly put away his comic and resumed his pose, leaning insouciantly against the balustrade with his chin tilted up. Amazingly, he did look smarter in the intellectual ambience of the bookstore. Cate as always was spot on with her judgment.

“There’s something missing…” Cate mused. Then her face lit up. “Ah! I have it. I think we should use him in the shot, Sean,” she said, grabbing the hapless Elijah and steering him toward the staircase.

“Me?” Elijah appeared flabbergasted.

“Okay.” Sean got up. He picked up a few random books and carried them over to Elijah, who was now standing several steps down so that he was forced to look up at Orlando.

“Just for atmosphere,” he reassured him. “You’re selling these to Orlando,” he added, handing the books to Elijah.

“To him?” he said, with such patent disbelief in his voice that Sean was hard-pressed not to laugh.

“It’s very simple; just pretend that he can read,” Cate advised him.

“Hey, listen,” Orli protested.

“All right, Orli,” Sean said, going behind the camera and taking a seat on the stool Dom had put there for him, “let’s go. Billy, hit the lights.”

In seconds, the shop was more brightly illuminated than it had probably ever been in its entire glum existence, and Orli struck a pose. Elijah kept talking.

“But this would be a violation of all my principles,” he said, his eyes trained on Orli, who was assuming a series of different poses, each more dramatic than the last. “It would be hypocrisy for me to lend myself to this sort of idealism. I’m sorry, but I can’t…” He started to turn away.

“Oh hush,” Cate said in exasperation, pulling him back into position. “Now tell Orlando about the books so we can get out of here.”

Grudgingly, Elijah did. “This book deals with epiphenomenalism, which has to do with consciousness as a mere accessory of physiological processes whose presence or absence makes… no… difference…” His voice trailed off as he stared in a species of horrified fascination at Orlando’s contortions. “What the _fuck_ are you doing?”

“All right, hold it!” Sean ordered, as Orli finally hit exactly the right pose.

Everybody froze, including, amazingly enough, Elijah—or perhaps he was simply too mesmerized by Orlando’s behavior to talk.

Sean hit the remote release for the shutter. The camera clicked.

“Good!” he said, and hopped down from the stool.

“Get Orlando into another suit,” Cate said to Miranda, “and Dom, for god’s sake put on some music. It’s like a morgue in here.”

Elijah set down the books on the step with a thump that got everyone’s attention. His color was high and it was clear that he’d reached the end of his tether.

“None of you seems to realize you’re trespassing on private property. You all run around here in sublime ignorance of the fact that I can have you put in jail.” He gesticulated wildly. “Now for the last time…”

“You’re getting very tiresome,” Cate said, and took hold of his arm again. She dragged him across the shop toward the door.

“What are you doing?” Elijah exclaimed indignantly. “Let go! Let go of my arm!”

Cate flung open the door and pushed Elijah through it. “I know you don’t mean any harm, child, but you are in everyone’s way,” she said, beginning to close the door. 

“Now, we won’t be a moment.” Despite Elijah’s attempts to stop her, she shut and locked it, and ignoring Elijah’s raps on the glass and demands to be let back in, pulled down the shade.

She turned around and winked at Sean. “The air will do him good; he was very pale.”

After banging on the door a few more times and peering through the display window while mouthing ‘let me in’, Elijah appeared to give up. But Sean had no time to worry about the young man outside the shop and how he was amusing himself. Orli was hustled into another McKellen suit, the lights and camera were moved to the opposite end of the shop and Dom set up his iPod and the portable speakers. Soon Miles Davis filled the room. Billy adjusted the lights and Dom managed the film holders while Sean roamed back and forth with the remote shutter release in his right hand and gave Orlando instructions.

“All right, hit it. Hold it. Good. One more please,” Sean said over and over, his demanding perfectionist nature turning him into a taskmaster even Cate didn’t venture to interfere with. Orli was a trooper, though, and Billy and Dom had been with Sean long enough now almost to anticipate his every need. They worked together like a well-oiled machine.

Even so, it was far more than the promised ‘moment’ before the last shot was taken to Sean’s satisfaction and they finally started packing up. With their usual efficiency, Dom, Billy and Miranda had everything squared away in no time. Cate unlocked and reopened the door and Orli, cellphone glued to his ear, hustled out, anxious to get to his gym.

“Aren’t you coming, Sean?” Dom asked.

“No, I’ll stay and help Elijah,” he said. The room looked like a bomb had gone off; he couldn’t in good conscience leave the young man to tackle a mess like this alone, not when it was none of his making. “See you back at the ranch.”

“Okay.” Dom gave a wave, and followed after Billy.

“Are you quite done?” Sean heard Elijah ask sarcastically.

“Thank you, you’ve been wonderful,” Cate replied. “We’ll mention the store in the magazine.”

“Don’t you dare,” Elijah exclaimed, sounding totally outraged, and Sean chuckled under his breath as he squatted to pick up some of the books that littered the floor.

The bell tinkled. Sean glanced over his shoulder and saw Elijah sagging against the closed door, a stunned expression on his face as he took in the extent of the disaster. “Oh no!” he moaned, his hand going to the back of his neck and rubbing at it as if he had a sudden pain. “Oh fuck.”

Sean’s conscience smote him again as he stood, half a dozen books in his hands. 

“Hello there,” he said, and Elijah gave him a sour, unfriendly look—understandable under the circumstances. “I stayed to help you put things back. I’m sorry; I didn’t realize we’d made such a mess.” He consulted the book on the top of his stack. “Um, which shelf for materialism?”

Elijah sighed. “Oh, just hand them to me,” he said, and Sean did. “Oh fuck,” Elijah repeated as he looked for clear spot on a table. Giving up, he set the books down on top of the others. “You should be ashamed of yourself,” he said accusingly.

“We don’t usually barge in that way,” Sean said, which was true—more or less. More if Cate wasn’t along, less if she was.

“I don’t mean that,” Elijah replied, coming to Sean’s side. “I mean, a man of your ability wasting his time photographing ridiculous suits on ridiculous men.”

“I don’t know, most people think they’re beautiful suits on beautiful men.” Sean spoke lightly, but the accusation stung. He handed another pile of books he’d picked up to Elijah.

“At most it’s a synthetic beauty.” Elijah dumped the books on the table, and shrugged in resignation as half of them fell back to the floor. “Trees are beautiful. Why don’t you photograph trees?”

Sean almost rolled his eyes at the naiveté Elijah’s comment revealed, but at the same time, he felt stung again. Funny, he’d thought he was immune after all these years. Seemed he was wrong about that.

“I do what I do for a living,” he said, an edge to his voice. “It has to do with supply and demand. You’d be amazed how small the demand is for pictures of trees.” He gathered up more books. “My work is very pleasant, the pay is excellent, and I get an all expenses paid trip to Paris every year.”

That caught Elijah’s attention. “Paris?” he repeated. “Man, I sure envy you that. I’d be in Paris right now if I could afford it.” He headed to the shelves.

“You’d have a blast, Elijah,” Sean said, following him. “You’d go to a different party every night, drink champagne until it’s coming out your ears and have a new love affair every hour on the hour.”

Elijah gave him a sidelong look, and shook his head slightly, as if in disbelief. “If I went to Paris, it would be to go to Viggo Mortensen’s lectures, not a bunch of stupid parties.”

What was it about this kid that got under his skin, wondered Sean, feeling that sting a third time. He rarely gave a flying fuck what anyone thought about him, but it rankled, Elijah’s undisguised low opinion of him and his profession.

“Who goes to Paris for lectures?” Sean shot back, although he himself had in fact done exactly that—maybe not lectures on whatever high falutin’ topic Elijah was about to reveal to him, but on photography and art.

“Professor Mortensen is the world’s greatest living philosopher,” Elijah said with the utmost reverence, “and the father of Empathicalism.”

“Oh? What’s Empathicalism?” Sean asked curiously. It was a new one on him.

“The most sensible approach to true understanding and peace of mind.” Elijah’s voice and expression grew dreamy, and his hands stilled on the books he was straightening.

“Sounds great, but what is it?”

“It’s based on empathy.” Elijah took hold of the library ladder. “Do you know what the word ‘empathy’ means?” he asked as he climbed the first few rungs.

“No, I’ll have to have the beginner’s course on that one,” Sean said with a huff of laughter. He boosted himself up onto the bookshelf and started standing a row of lopsided books straight up. “Empathy.” He thought about it for a moment. “Is it something like sympathy?”

“Oh no, it goes beyond sympathy,” Elijah said earnestly. “Sympathy is to understand what someone is feeling. Empathy is to project your feelings so that you actually feel what the other person is feeling. You put yourself in the other person’s place.” He cocked his head to one side. “Does that make sense?”

Sean wasn’t certain what impulse moved him then, but thinking about it later, he decided it was perhaps less empathy than wanting to get his own back a little for those several stings and the scorn they revealed. But whatever the reason, he reached out and pulled the ladder toward him. Then he leaned in and kissed Elijah full on the lips, lips that were soft and warm and tempted him to linger. He didn’t, though, but drew back after a couple of seconds and resumed his straightening.

Elijah remained stock-still on the ladder; his hands gripped the wood so hard the knuckles showed white. His expression was somber as he said in subdued voice, “Why did you do that?”

“Empathy,” Sean said. “I put myself in your place, and felt that you wanted to be kissed.”

“You put yourself in the wrong place,” Elijah said tightly. “I have no desire to be kissed—by you or anyone else.”

“Don’t be absurd. Everyone wants to be kissed, even philosophers.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Astin, we don’t stock what you’re looking for. I-I’ll let you out.” He started to climb down, but Sean beat him to it.

“Don’t bother,” he said, jumping to the floor. “I’ll throw myself out.” He picked up his camera and his discarded sports coat, and gave Elijah a little wave. “Goodbye.” 

Despite himself, there was more than a hint of bitterness in his voice. Elijah couldn’t have made it clearer from beginning to end what he thought of him.

No wonder his Deardorff was the love of his life.

_____________________________

 

The tinkle of the doorbell faded. Elijah stood on the ladder unmoving, then he slowly rested his forehead against the smooth worn wood. The taste and feel of Sean Astin lingered on his mouth. Unconsciously he touched the tips of his fingers to his tingling lips. Why had he done it? A man like that couldn’t empathize with someone like Elijah—could he? And why would he think Elijah wanted to be kissed anyway?

He climbed down from the ladder and wandered aimlessly through the store, too rattled by what had happened to care about the mess. That kiss had done something to him. It had penetrated his defenses, defenses that he’d painstakingly constructed, brick by brick, since the death of his parents when he was twelve.

Uncle Ian had encouraged him to construct those defenses after he’d taken Elijah in. Encouraged him to pursue the scholar’s life that he himself had led, a life of intellect not emotions. Since he was twelve the bookshop had always been Elijah’s refuge, his escape. Until today. Until Sean and that gaggle of frivolous, vain, self-absorbed and totally un-empathetic people had invaded it and turned it upside down. For a moment, he almost hated them, especially Sean, for a part of him yearned toward the light and color and emotion that they represented.

A puddle of bright blue on the sofa caught Elijah’s attention. It was the teal silk scarf that the model had been wearing. Almost against his will, Elijah went to the sofa and picked it up. The material flowed through his fingers like water—cool and liquid. He wondered what something like this cost. Probably more than he made in a week working in the shop. How typical of such people that they would leave something so costly behind, he thought, forget it as if it were of no worth at all.

On impulse, he draped the scarf loosely around his neck and regarded his reflection in the mirror. The vivid color emphasized the pallor of his skin and made his eyes, his weird buggy eyes that he’d never liked, appear unnaturally blue. He thought of Orlando, the model, so tall and well built. With his dark eyes and warm skin tone, he could carry off a scarf like this. On Elijah it merely looked ridiculous.

He unwound the scarf, folded it carefully and set it back down on the sofa. He’d have to return it, of course; he didn’t want to be accused of stealing. He’d look up the address of the magazine’s offices on the Internet when he got back to the Brooklyn brownstone where he lived with his uncle. He could hire a messenger to deliver it tomorrow.

But right now he had work to do, and plenty of it. Elijah turned his back on mirror and scarf and bent to pick up an armload of books, steadfastly ignoring a small tug of regret.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fate (or is it Cate?) brings our two heroes together again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My knowledge of professional photography is mostly all Internet gained. Be kind! Please note that much (not all) of the dialogue in this part is lifted directly from the movie, with slight modifications here and there.

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v368/biinfc/Funny%20Face/?action=view&current=funny-face-wallpaper.png)

 

There was nothing that gave Sean greater joy than working in a darkroom. Sure, he made use of digital technology like every other photographer these days, and his Canon 400D was a reliable workhorse that took terrific photos when he was out in the field and couldn’t use the Deardorff. But there was nothing like the sense of satisfaction he got from hands-on developing, from being in total control of the process from start to finish. He loved every aspect of darkroom work, with its combination of technical precision and artistry. Even the smell of the harsh chemicals was a dear and familiar friend.

Tension gradually built inside him while he created his prints, developing the film, choosing the exposure, the filters, adjusting the colors; the rush he got when the finicky, demanding work done in near total darkness resulted in a photo of stunning beauty was better than the best orgasm he’d ever had.

Today, though, Sean was having trouble achieving his usual state of photographic nirvana. It was entirely the fault of Elijah, the young man from the bookstore whom Cate had impulsively involved in the shoot. He hadn’t been able to shake Elijah from his mind; he was still under Sean’s skin, irritating and itching, like one of those damned chiggers he’d picked up several years ago during a fashion shoot at a resort in South Carolina.

Sean finished rinsing the final photograph and set it on the drying rack. His task done, he didn’t experience the elation and sense of accomplishment from the fruits of his labors that he usually did. Instead he grimaced, and shaking his head at his own weakness of will, reached for one of the first photos he’d developed. It was nearly dry now, and he removed it from the rack, holding it carefully between his hands as he studied it.

Orli’s white suit and teal scarf provided a vivid contrast to the earth tone browns and muted golds of the shop. The model’s serious expression leant him an air of scholarly detachment that achieved exactly the effect Cate had wanted: a guy dressed in stylish clothes, who wasn’t interested in style but, in this case, great literature. Her decision to use _Embryo Concepts_ as the backdrop for Ian McKellen’s spring collection had been inspired. Orli looked smashing, the bookstore suitably intellectual, and while the final decision on which photos to use in the spread rested with Cate and Andy, the magazine’s art director, Sean was secure in the knowledge that no matter what she chose, his photographs would help to sell copies of _Quality Magazine_ —a lot of them.

But smashing as he looked, it wasn’t Orlando who held Sean’s attention. It was Elijah, awkwardly clutching an armful of sloppily arranged books to his chest as he gazed up at Orli with what could only be called a ‘what the fuck’ look on his face. 

He took Sean’s breath away.

There were faces the camera adored. This face the camera worshipped.

Sean never knew for certain until he developed a photo how the subject would appear; some of the most unlikely faces, faces with exaggerated or uneven features, photographed the best. Often faces considered beautiful by conventional standards photographed bland and uninteresting. Elijah, with his enormous, luminous blue eyes, skin that even without powder appeared flawless, and bone structure that was a photographer’s dream of subtle hollows and intriguing planes, was a total knock-out.

Everything about the set-up should have worked against Elijah—his inexperience, his dark clothes, his posture, the scruff that blurred the outline of his chin—but it didn’t. An aching, nigh overwhelming desire to photograph that face again, and again, and again, to explore every facet from every angle, filled Sean. He huffed a rueful laugh. Too bad the possessor of said face considered fashion photographers barely one step up from serial killers, and would doubtless run screaming at the very suggestion that Sean be allowed to shoot him.

It was a pity, and yet despite himself, Sean felt a reluctant tug of admiration for Elijah. He was thoughtful and intelligent, he had spirit, and he definitely wasn’t afraid to stand up for what he believed in. Those were rare and valuable qualities in Sean’s experience. Hell, Elijah had given Cate a run for her money, and not many people could claim as much.

With definite regret for what might have been, he restored the photo to its spot on the drying rack. Elijah’s image, though, wasn’t so easily put away. Nor was the memory of how soft his lips had felt beneath Sean’s own.

_____________________________

 

_One week later..._

“When you hear my new idea you are going to die,” Cate said the instant Sean stepped into her swank office with its panoramic view of the city. “It staggers me that no one has ever thought of it before.”

“All right, kill me,” Sean invited, perching a hip on the edge of an acre-sized antique mahogany desk littered with model portfolios, tearsheets, swatches of fabric, and current issues of competitors’ magazines.

She struck a dramatic pose in front of the window. With her willowy figure flatteringly outlined by a Dior suit, her height augmented by Manolo Blahniks, and her high cheekbones and elongated cat-eyes emphasized by an upswept ‘do, she could easily have been a high-end model herself, but as she’d told Sean any number of times, “I wouldn’t be caught dead on a runway.”

“I’m going to select a man to be the Quality Man,” she announced. “This one man will represent everything the magazine stands for.”

“It’s a great gimmick,” Sean said, pursing his lips as he considered the idea.

“Gimmick?” Cate repeated scornfully. “It’s a triumph! Sean, Ian McKellen has agreed to design an entire collection around our Quality Man, and he’s going to allow us to photograph it before the opening of his Paris show in two weeks.” A glint of triumph sparked in her gray eyes. “We’ll scoop every other magazine.”

“Wow.”

“Staggers you, doesn’t it?”

“Absolutely. I can’t believe Ian agreed to it.” And if Sean hadn’t known that Ian was an old queen, gayer than gay Paree, he’d have suspected a little romantic persuasion on Cate’s part. Ian stood to piss off their competitors, who weren’t going to take the betrayal lightly.

“Can’t you?” Cate smiled like a cat who’d got at the cream. She loved it when she was able to surprise him.

“So, who do you have in mind for the ‘Quality Man’?” Sean asked.

She threw up her hands. “God knows. I’ve been going through portfolios all morning and those are the best I could come up with.” She pointed at the lightbox on her desk.

Sean considered the three photos on the box. Each of the models was a top notch professional and would cheerfully commit murder to land such a plum assignment. “Any of these men would be all right,” he said.

“He’s got to be better than all right. He’s got to have _pizzazz_. Sean, I need you to come up with some other suggestions for me.”

“When do you need them?” he asked, setting down the photos.

“Yesterday,” Cate replied crisply. “Ian is already going great guns on the designs. He expects us in Paris with our Quality Man in a week for the fittings. That doesn’t leave us much time.”

“I’ll do my best.” Sean got up and sketched an ironic obeisance. A week, he thought as he left her office. They would have to move mountains to be ready to leave for Paris in a week. But they’d manage it. For one thing, Cate didn’t accept failure as an alternative, and for another, she had uttered the magic word: Paris.

Already Sean could taste the fresh baguettes at his favorite boulangerie and smell the spring flowers in the Tuileries garden. Paris in the springtime; it was everything the songs made it out to be and then some. Maybe he’d indulge in a light-hearted love affair — sex with no strings attached, Parisian style. He knew the right clubs to frequent to meet guys similarly inclined. It had been a while, and he could use a bit of ego boosting in the wake of Elijah’s rejection.

It occurred to him that while he was in Paris, he could search out that Professor Whatsisname that Elijah had mentioned and attend a lecture on Empathicalism. It would likely be entertaining if not educational, and he was curious about this mysterious philosopher whom Elijah revered. He chuckled, imagining the flabbergasted expression on Elijah’s face if he found out…

Sean came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the corridor. Elijah, Paris. Paris, Elijah. The word association planted the seed of a staggeringly perfect idea in his brain, dislodging Parisian-style love affairs and Empathicalism. My god, and Cate thought she was going to kill him with the brilliance of her ideas? Ha! Just wait until she got a load of Sean’s.

He actually broke into a jog so anxious was he to get to his studio on Fulton Street and his files of photos. By the time he arrived there, stoked with excitement, the seed had sprouted and was growing like Jack’s fabled beanstalk.

He’d found Cate’s Quality Man.

_____________________________

 

The door to Cate’s office was ajar when Sean returned a few hours later with a manila folder in his arms, and he could hear a babble of voices inside.

“Wait ‘til you see what I’ve got,” he pronounced, bursting into the room.

Silence fell, and everyone stared at him. Cate was surrounded by her usual coterie of young, ambitious, good-looking, mostly gay assistants. Sean could never keep them straight, because they came and went with distressing frequency; working for _Quality Magazine_ was not for the faint of heart. The magazine’s not-so-young, not-so-good-looking, most definitely not gay art director, Andy Serkis, was also there, and Sean was pleased. Andy was one of Cate’s oldest and most trusted employees, and therefore a valuable ally. If he liked Sean’s idea, it would weigh heavily with Cate.

“What have you got?” Cate asked, one elegant eyebrow lifting.

“The man. The Quality Man,” Sean said, handing a photo to Cate. He removed the photos on the lightbox and replaced them with three more of the photos of Orli and Elijah from the bookstore shoot that he’d brought.

She held it up. “Orlando?” she scoffed. “Don’t tell me that’s the best you could come up with, Sean.”

“Forget Orli. It’s the other man I’m talking about. Elijah.”

“That lunatic from the bookstore?” She lowered the photo and stared at him in disbelief.

Sean grabbed a red grease pen from the holder on her desk. “Cate,” he said, drawing a decisive circle around Elijah, “he’s new. He’s fresh.” He swiveled the lightbox toward her.

“You’ve gone out of your mind.”

Andy examined the photos. “Well, one can’t deny that he’s, uh, unusual. Who is he?” he asked curiously.

“Don’t even ask,” Cate said, rolling her eyes. “The thought of him makes me shudder. Dreadful, dreadful young man. Sean, if this is some sort of joke…”

“It’s no joke,” Sean replied emphatically. “He might need help to get up to speed, but with a little work, he’d be great for us.”

“He’d devour us all!”

“Oh come on, Cate.”

Cate picked up a magnifying glass and held it over Elijah. “Well, look at him,” she said. “I think his face is perfectly funny. The Quality Man must have charm, rugged good looks and pizzazz.”

“This is the first time I’ve seen you lack imagination,” said Sean. “Every guy on every page of Quality has charm, rugged good looks and pizzazz. What’s wrong with bringing out a guy with character, spirit and intelligence?”

“That would be novel in a fashion magazine,” Andy joked.

“Andy, I owe you a drink,” Sean said, offering him his hand, which Andy shook with enthusiasm.

Cate rested her chin in her palm and narrowed her eyes as she contemplated Elijah. “Can you make me some black and white enlargements?” she asked abruptly.

“Yes,” Sean said, while inside he was fist pumping in triumph. He’d won.

“Use our darkroom. Let me study the possibilities.”

“Now you’re talking.” Sean headed for the door.

“I’m not promising anything,” Cate called after him in a singsong voice.

“You don’t have to,” Sean said over his shoulder, and with an airy wave, departed for the darkroom.

_____________________________

 

“Embryo Concepts.”

“I’d like to order some books,” said a young and very gay male voice on the other end of the phone.

“What sort of books?” Elijah asked.

“Assorted books. Five hundred dollars worth.”

Elijah choked. “Did you say five hundred dollars?”

“That’s right. And we need them delivered immediately.”

Elijah held the receiver away and stared at it. What the fuck? he thought. It was hands down the weirdest request he’d ever gotten. “Let me make sure I’ve got this right. You need five hundred dollars worth of assorted books delivered right now?”

“Correct.”

“And you don’t care what the subject matter is?”

“Anything at all will do. But make sure they have attractive covers. We, ah, need them for a photo shoot.”

A photo shoot? A dark suspicion entered Elijah’s mind. “Where are you calling from?” he asked.

“Quality Magazine.” He might have been saying ‘Buckingham Palace’. The effect on Elijah was probably not what the speaker intended.

Oh no, not them again, Elijah thought, repressing a groan. His immediate impulse was to slam down the phone, but he couldn’t. Not when they were prepared to buy five hundred dollars worth of books. As far as he knew, it was the biggest order the store had ever gotten, and he owed it to Uncle Ian to follow through. _Embryo Concepts_ didn’t exactly do a booming business with competition from those giants like _Barnes & Noble_ and _Amazon_. Anyway, simply sending some books uptown to the magazine’s offices on Madison Avenue couldn’t hurt. It wasn’t the same as last time, when they invaded the store like the proverbial swarm of locusts, leaving total chaos behind. He was still finding books out of order on the shelves.

“Will this be cash or credit card?”

“Cash.”

Fuck. He’d have to deliver the books himself then. The very thought of possibly encountering that awful woman there, not to mention Sean… Elijah’s cheeks grew hot as he recalled the unexpected kiss that despite his best efforts he still thought about far too often. “Look, can’t you send someone to pick the books up? I’ll have to close the store otherwise.”

“Darling,” the man drawled, “the break will do you good. You sound very tense.”

Elijah sighed and gave up. “I’ll be there as soon as I can,” he said, and hung up.

Thirty-five minutes later, he locked the front door, hailed a cab and was on his way uptown. On the seat beside him was a pile of books that he hoped would meet the ‘attractive cover’ requirement. They were mostly expensive coffee table type art books. Elijah had been tempted as a matter of irony to bring weighty tomes on materialism and psychopiscoparalysm, but in the end decided that it would be a waste of good reading material.

The magazine offices were on the twentieth floor of a building in a trendy section of Madison Avenue that was filled with shops that subscribed to the ‘if you have to ask, you can’t afford it’ motto. Elijah couldn’t even begin to fathom what the monthly rent for these stores must be — enough to feed the poor and starving for a year, most likely. He knew what Professor Mortensen would say, that Elijah should put himself in the place of one of the ultra-wealthy and ultra well-dressed people he saw strolling along the sidewalk with shopping bags that said ‘Cartier’ and ‘Gucci’, and he’d discover that their lives were as full of trouble and strife as anyone else’s. 

But somehow he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it, even if it made him a bad Empathicalist. He had no desire to know how this other half lived, especially after his encounter with the people from _Quality Magazine_.

No, he would simply drop off the books, take his money, and go back to the Village where he belonged. The cool spill of bright silk through his hands and the warm press of Sean’s lips he put resolutely out of his mind.

He was whisked up to the twentieth floor in a mirrored elevator manned by a portly middle-aged attendant in a bellhop’s maroon uniform with gold braiding on the jacket’s shoulders and breast and on the round maroon cap that perched on his grizzled hair. Poor guy, Elijah thought empathetically, forced to work in that ridiculous get-up giving rides to a bunch of over-privileged rich who probably found pushing elevator buttons beneath them. He was clearly feeling downtrodden and put upon.

He gave the man a commiserating look in a spirit of friendly solidarity, the masses against the classes, and received a cheerful smile in return. ‘God, I love my job,’ that smile said. Oops. Elijah sighed mentally and studied the toes of his scuffed black Chucks. He still had a lot to learn about Empathicalism.

He was disgorged on the twentieth floor into the lobby of _Quality Magazine_. It was pretty much exactly what he expected: chic, glamorous, monochromatic, and intimidating as hell. A young man a few years older than him sat behind the ultra-modern sleek white reception desk that held an ultra-modern sleek white computer and an ultra-modern sleek white phone. Somehow Elijah felt certain, looking at him, that he was the one who had called the store. Maybe it was the heavily applied black eyeliner and mascara that gave it away and the spiky black-dyed hair, or maybe it was the funky gray and black geometric pattern blazer and the fingerless gray gloves.

His dark eyes scrutinized Elijah from head to toes, taking in his grubby jeans jacket, faded Ramones tee shirt, Levis, and Chucks, and finally the books he held in his arms. “Oh, so it’s you, darling,” he said. “You’re not at all what I expected.”

Yes, it was phone guy, but what on earth he was talking about, Elijah had no idea. Whatever it was, it didn’t sound like a compliment. “I’m here to drop off the books you requested,” he said. He dug two receipts out of the front pocket of his jeans. 

“The total comes to $556.48. That’s $544.38 with tax for the books, plus $12.10 for the cab.”

But phone guy ignored him. He picked up the telephone receiver and punched a button. “He’s here,” he said, and hung up.

“Um, the books?” Elijah asked. “Where should I put them down?”

A door at the far end of the reception area opened and a woman appeared: tall, blonde, elegant, dressed to the nines. Oh no, Elijah thought. It was her. He was tempted simply to dump the books on the reception desk and bolt; only the thought of the $556.48 he was owed prevented him.

“Well, come along,” Cate said briskly. “There’s not a moment to waste.”

With a sense rather of approaching a lioness’s den, Elijah walked toward her. She held the door open wider, made a sweeping gesture with her hand, and Elijah reluctantly passed through. The door closed firmly behind him, and ridiculous as it might seem, he felt trapped.

The room was filled with people. He recognized Miranda, the make-up artist, but none of the other faces was familiar. They were all staring expectantly straight at him, however, and he began to get a sinking sensation that a replay of the insanity at the bookstore was imminent.

“Where would you like me to put the books?” he asked.

“Drop the books,” Cate instructed him.

“What?”

“Go on, drop the books.”

“On the floor?” Elijah squeaked.

“Yes, on the floor.”

Elijah crouched and set the pile of books down on the thick cream-colored carpet. As he straightened, Cate grabbed hold of his shoulders from behind and yanked on them. “Straighten up, shoulders back,” she said. “If people only knew how important good posture is.”

Elijah shrugged out of her grasp and stepped back. “Listen, I didn’t come here to enroll in a military academy, but to deliver your books,” he said. “Now just give me my $556.48.” He consulted the sales receipt. “It’s $77.95 for the Modigliani. $62.50 each for the Braques and the Hieronymus Bosch, $89.95 for the Post-Impressionists, $75.50 for the Egyptians, Fourth to Seventh Dynasties, $53.75 for the Michelangelo, and $68.85 for the Van Gogh. That comes to $500 plus $44.38 for the tax and $12.10 for the cab ride, for a total of $556.48.”

“Talks incessantly,” Cate said, shaking her head.

One of the young men in the circle that had gathered around Elijah said, “He’s short, but he’s well-proportioned. The body’s good.”

“It’ll be better when we get through with it,” Cate replied, walking around him and studying him.

“Through with what?” Elijah asked in bewilderment, swiveling his head to follow her progress.

“You know, he might do,” she went on, tapping one long, elegant forefinger against her flawlessly made-up cheek.

“Might do what?” Bewilderment was turning to alarm. Lioness’s den? Little had he known — he felt like Princess Leia chained in Jabba the Hutt’s saloon. Avid eyes examined him as if he were little better than some slave put there for them to drool over.

Cate took his chin in her hand. “The bones are good,” she pronounced, forcing his head this way and that.

Elijah pushed her hand away and took another step back. The horde stepped with him and the hunted sensation increased. “Suppose we leave my bones out of this, and you give me my $556.48.”

“Miranda, I want a light powder here—not much, his skin is excellent. But this scruff on his chin has got to go first—it’s ghastly. And the hair is a total disaster. It simply must be cut.”

“Would you mind telling me what this is all about?” Elijah asked indignantly.

“We may as well get started. First let me get this dreadful thing off him.” Cate reached for his jeans jacket, with the evident intent of removing it, while Miranda advanced him on, make-up kit in hand, along with a young man wielding a pair of shiny silver scissors in one hand and a Gillette razor in the other. Before Elijah knew what was happening, his jacket was off. The others crowded round, ready to get to work powdering and shaving and cutting.

“Hang on. Just hang on a minute,” Elijah said sharply, snatching his jacket out of Cate’s hands. He rarely got his dander up or lost his temper, but this was simply too much. When they all ignored him, he flung out his arms and yelled loudly, “Stop!”

Everyone froze in place.

“This is my second and last encounter with you lunatics,” Elijah said. “You just keep your hands off me, all of you. I come here to make a simple book delivery and find myself being manhandled. Well, fuck that.” His voice rose. It was actually shaking, he was that pissed off now. “I don’t want a haircut. I don’t want powder, a little or a lot, on my face. And I like my chin exactly the way it is — scruffy.” He began to back slowly toward the door. “I’m leaving now, and if anyone so much as makes a move to stop me, there’ll be plenty of hair cut, trust me, but I guarantee you none of it will be mine.”

He pivoted on the balls of his feet, and bolted for the door. _Fuck the $556.48_ , he thought. He was outta there. He wrenched the office door open and ran for his life, straight past the startled receptionist, who half-rose from his chair, saying, “Well, that obviously went well.”

“After him, Bret!” Cate cried. “Everyone, bring him back — alive!”

The hunt was on. Elijah turned down the first corridor he came to and sprinted to the end. He could hear pounding feet behind him. He slipped and nearly fell as he rounded the corner but desperation gave him strength, and he nimbly recovered and ran on. He hated running. As far as he was concerned the only reason to run was because someone was chasing you, or, as in this case, many someones. He darted into the next hallway he saw, and then noticed a recessed doorway halfway down. He dove for it, huddling into the narrow shelter it offered, and listened intently.

“Do you see him?” someone said.

“Not down here,” Bret the receptionist called back.

“Well, come on then, and hurry up before he escapes.”

The voices faded. But Elijah didn’t celebrate. This was simply a reprieve. He had to find a better hiding place, pronto. He tried the handle of the door beside him. It turned. He opened the door, slipped inside, and slumped back against it in relief.

For about one second that is.

“Hey,” a voice exclaimed. “Didn’t you see that light outside?”

Elijah recognized that voice. Oh fuck. Out of the frying pan, into the fire. As if things couldn’t get any worse, it was Sean.

_____________________________

 

He'd found refuge in a darkroom. An amber-colored safe light overhead shed just sufficient illumination that he could see Sean standing beside an enlarger. It was beaming white light at the opposite wall, where a metal easel was mounted. What was in the easel being enlarged, Elijah couldn’t tell from his angle. Despite himself, his curiosity was roused. He’d always been fascinated by photography, had even helped out in the darkroom in high school. But his philosophy studies hadn’t allowed him to do more than dabble in it since.

And also despite himself, the sight of Sean, wearing snug-fitting jeans and a button down of some indeterminate dark color with the sleeves rolled up to reveal muscular forearms, roused other emotions in Elijah, emotions he had no desire to experience or explore. _Liar_ , a little voice inside his head reprimanded him.

“In desperation, one does not examine one’s avenue of escape,” Elijah said with some bitterness.

Sean chuckled; the rich deep sound sent shivers through Elijah.

“Oh, it’s you,” he said, seeming unsurprised.

There was a click as he shut off the enlarger and picked up a large sheet of photo paper from the counter that ran along one wall of the room and held a sink, a digital clock, an assortment of graduates, boxes of surgical gloves, stacks of photo paper and other arcane paraphernalia. Above it were several long shelves filled with bottles of chemicals.

“I’m sorry if I ruined a print,” Elijah said, straightening. He knew that even the tiniest amount of outside light getting in could be disastrous.

“That’s all right.” Sean crossed to the easel. He unfastened it, let the paper that was in it fall to the floor, and replaced it with the photo paper he’d picked up. “What’s all the desperation about?”

He worked with the unhurried motions of someone who knew precisely what he was doing, adjusting the paper in the easel and then locking it in place. Elijah couldn’t help noticing his hands: large and capable. What would it be like to have those large and capable hands on his body? The errant thought passed through his mind. Were they as skilled at lovemaking as they were at developing photos? Elijah batted the thought away, glad of the dull light that hid his sudden blush.

“Those people,” he answered, setting his jeans jacket on the counter. “They could care less about anyone else’s feelings. That woman pulled the jacket right off me, and wanted to put powder on my face, for fuck’s sake.”

“Who, Cate?”

“Yeah.”

A knock came on the door, and the receptionist Bret said, “Sean, have you seen that guy from the bookstore? Is he in there?” He sounded almost desperate.

Elijah tensed.

Sean looked toward the door then hesitated. “Maybe you should give them a chance to…” he began sotto voce.

Elijah shook his head vehemently and hissed, “Please don’t give me away.”

Sean nodded. “No,” he said loudly, “there was no one here when I came in.”

“Well if you see him, darling, hang on to him.” There was a babble of voices that died as the posse moved off.

“I’ll do that,” Sean said, and huffed a laugh. “I’m afraid this is all my fault,” he added as he returned to the enlarger and turned it back on. “I thought you’d make a good model.”

Elijah was flabbergasted. “You mean this is your idea?” He should be mad at Sean for setting him up to be hassled by that crew of nutjobs, but he couldn’t be. And not because Sean thought he could make a good model, which was totally insane, but because he hadn’t simply dismissed Elijah from his mind after he left the store that day. He’d actually thought about him afterward. Wow.

“Yeah, I’m the one that you sue,” joked Sean.

“Oh, how could I model?” Elijah protested. “I have no illusions about my looks. I think my face is funny.”

Sean chuckled again. “That’s what Cate said.”

“I hate to admit it, but she’s right.” Finally, something that he and that madwoman had in common. Who’d have thought?

“But what you call ‘funny’, Elijah, I call ‘interesting’,” Sean said. He consulted his watch, reached up and turned off the enlarger.

Elijah grimaced, thinking of Orlando in that white suit making all those exaggerated expressions and gestures. “It’s too ridiculous even to think about. I couldn’t do it.”

“Let me be the judge of that.” Sean strode back to the easel and removed the photo paper. He carried it to the row of print trays in the center of the room and slid it into the one on the far left. “I wouldn’t take you to Paris if I didn’t think you’d work out.”

Elijah straightened as ramrod straight as even that dictator Cate could have wished. “Paris?” he repeated, as a dazzling vision of the City of Light opened before him. He went to the end of the print tray table and clutched it with hands that were trembling. He stared at Sean in amazement.

“Yeah,” Sean said, gently pushing the paper into the chemical wash with the tips of his fingers. “Look at it this way. Modeling may not be as bad as you think, but if it is, at least you’ll be in Paris. You can see your Professor Whatsisname.”

“Mortensen?” He breathed the name reverently.

“Yeah. You can talk to him, go to his lectures… That way it won’t be a total loss.” Sean lifted the paper from the tray and set it in the one adjacent. He gently tilted the tray from side to side to let the wash run over the developing photo.

“A—a means to an end,” Elijah said, his mind racing. To meet Viggo Mortensen, to listen to him lecture, maybe even to talk to him one on one about Empathicalism… Why, he’d practically walk over burning coals for the opportunity. Surely modeling couldn’t be more painful than that!

“Or a means to a beginning,” suggested Sean. “According to how it works out.” He removed the dripping paper and slid it into the final tray to rinse it. After a few seconds he lifted it out. “Now let’s see…” He grinned, and held the finished photo toward Elijah. “There we are.”

“Oh no!” Elijah exclaimed. It was his face, his funny face, grossly magnified so that his big bug eyes looked buggier than ever, and his pointy nose and his uneven lips, which were higher on one side than the other, practically jumped out at him and yelled ‘Weird!’

“What’s the matter?” Sean asked. He sounded genuinely puzzled, which would have been flattering if Elijah could have torn his gaze away from the horrifying sight of his enlarged face.

“How can you possibly make a model out of that?” he asked in dismay. “You can’t be serious.”

Sean huffed a laugh. “When I get through with you, you’ll look like…” He pondered a moment. “What would you call beautiful? A tree? You’ll look like a tree.”

“A tree with bug eyes,” Elijah said.

Sean set down the photo. “Come with me,” he said, taking Elijah by the hand, and led him over to the easel. He stood him with his back to it. “Now stay put — consider this your first modeling assignment.”

Elijah stayed put, wondering what Sean was going to do. He watched as he strode back to the enlarger and flipped the switch. Brilliant white light shone full on Elijah’s face. He squinted and half raised one hand to shield his eyes, but dropped it as Sean approached. His heart started to beat faster. Sean placed a finger under Elijah’s chin and lifted it. His touch was gentle and respectful, totally unlike the imperious Cate, and Elijah thought, amazed, _I could enjoy working with him_. 

Suddenly the idea of going to Paris held an appeal unrelated to Viggo Mortensen. Maybe modeling wouldn’t be so bad after all.

“You are going to make a killer tree, Elijah,” Sean said, and though his tone was light, his hazel eyes were serious.

For a moment, Elijah thought that Sean was going to kiss him again. This time if he did, he would definitely be practicing Empathicalism. But to Elijah’s secret disappointment, he removed his finger and turned away to pick up the photo.

“You ready to beard the lioness in her den?” he asked, and Elijah involuntarily smiled at Sean’s use of the same simile he’d used in his mind earlier.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Elijah said wryly, retrieving his jacket. He sighed. He was attached to his chin fuzz, which was de rigeur for budding philosophers.

Sean gave him an encouraging smile. “Just keeping thinking about Paris and Professor Whatsisname,” he advised.

“I’ll do that.” But Elijah was pretty certain it wasn’t thoughts of Paris or Professor Mortensen that were going to help him survive the coming ordeal.

_____________________________

 

Sean pushed the door to Cate’s office open with his foot and marched triumphantly into the room, holding the photo of Elijah in front of him like a bullfighter’s cape. Elijah’s dismay to the contrary, the photo was a knock-out, and Sean knew it. He’d been right. The camera worshipped Elijah’s face. God, he couldn’t wait to get to Paris and starting shooting it.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, “feast your eyes on our Quality Man.”

“Oh, that is marvelous!” Cate enthused, clapping her hands together like an excited child. Sean passed the photo over, and the rest of the crew oohed and aahed over it.

Elijah trailed in after Sean, looking very much as if he were having second thoughts.

But Cate, as Sean well knew, had her moments of humanity and humility. When she set eyes on Elijah, she exclaimed remorsefully, “My dear boy, I owe you an apology. I behaved abominably.”

Sean bit back a smile at Elijah’s reaction. If Cate had started turning cartwheels around the room he couldn’t have appeared more shocked.

“Elijah’s agreed to go to Paris,” Sean said. “Not only agreed, he can hardly wait.”

“Oh, marvelous!” Cate said again.

Elijah raised his soon-to-be-scruffless chin. “I hope you understand that this is not a loss of integrity,” he said with dignity. “It is purely a means to an end, and…”

“Well, there’s no time for talking now,” Cate interrupted him. “You can tell us about it later. All right, everyone,” she said briskly, “we’ve got to get cracking. To work and to Paris!”

In seconds Elijah was surrounded, and his transformation into the Quality Man got underway. His eyes met Sean’s, and he smiled, the rueful smile of one who has realized he can’t escape the whirlwind, but simply has to throw himself into it and be swept away.

It was a start, Sean thought.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elijah doesn't show up at Ian McKellen's Paris _salon_ and Sean sets out to find him.

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v368/biinfc/Funny%20Face/?action=view&current=funny-face-wallpaper.png)

Sean whistled cheerfully as he and Andy strode up the sidewalk outside Ian McKellen’s Paris salon on the Avenue Montaigne. His arms were laden with bottles of chilled Taittinger champagne while Andy carried three string bags filled with freshly baked baguettes, wafer thin slices of ham, Neufchâtel cheese, Charentais melons and chocolate truffles.

Sean tried to tell himself that his current state of euphoria was due to being in his second favorite city in the world and waking up in a decadently luxurious suite in the _Meurice_ , his absolute favorite hotel in his second favorite city in the world. But if he was being honest with himself, he had to admit that his current state of euphoria had a very different source: Elijah. What with photo shoots to squeeze in at the last moment and others to reschedule, requiring some major soothing of feathers ruffled by the news that he was skipping town, not to mention travel arrangements to make at short notice, Sean had been on the run practically non-stop, with no time to see Elijah since leaving him in the capable (if ruthless) hands of Cate and her assistants at the offices of _Quality Magazine_.

To say he was looking forward to the colorful butterfly that was about to emerge from Elijah’s faded-tee-shirt-and-jeans cocoon was an understatement.

He wondered if Henry Higgins had felt a similar childlike sense of anticipation at the unveiling of his creation, as well as a childish desire to say ‘I told you so’ to the doubting Thomases, or the doubting Cate, in this instance. All was not rosy with the Quality Man to judge from the text messages Cate sent Sean when he ignored her calls (‘sufficient unto the day’ being his motto when dealing with her).

_Your protégé refuses to stay at the Ritz. According to sainted Uncle Ian, it would be bourgeois, criminally spendthrift, and a betrayal of everything a member of the working class stands for. He’s booked himself into a youth hostel in the Latin Quarter instead. A YOUTH HOSTEL, Sean. Dear god, have we really sunk to this?_

A couple days later she sent another. _Elijah doesn’t own a cell phone. Uncle Ian doesn’t approve of them. Something about verbal diarrhea and brain tumors. We are to communicate with him via semaphore, I take it._

And finally, _Uncle Ian this. Uncle Ian that. If I hear Elijah utter that name one more time, I shall scream. I haven’t even met the man and I thoroughly detest him. This is all your doing, Sean, and don’t think I don’t know why you won’t return my calls._

Sean had read these messages with a measure of unholy amusement. It appeared that Cate had indeed met her match in Elijah Wood, as he’d suspected. A state of affairs that, in his opinion, would do her good. She was far too accustomed to bulldozing over people in her single-minded drive to make _Quality Magazine_ the highest circulation fashion magazine over _Vogue_ and _Harper’s Bazaar_ and getting away with it, as witness the storming of the bookstore.

Sean set his shoulder to the salon’s front door and pushed it open. Ian McKellen’s Paris _salon_ was a reflection of its eponymous owner, a man renowned throughout the fashion industry as the epitome of elegance and taste. Not a single detail was left to chance, no expense spared to make the _salon_ , as it was intended to be, the ideal setting in which to unveil the jewel that was Ian’s latest menswear collection and the young man who would model it for the critical eyes of the fashion world.

It was impossible not to compare its upscale decor with the gloomy interior of _Embryo Concepts_. Could any two places possibly be more dissimilar, Sean wondered. He could just imagine what good old Uncle Ian would have to say on the topic.

Not one, not two, but five superb crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, the floor to ceiling windows had sumptuous velvet drapes tied back to reveal a stone balustrade overlooking a lush garden, and the gilded marble-topped tables were adorned with Chinese export porcelain vases filled with white roses and hydrangeas. But there wasn’t a single book anywhere to be found.

At the rear of the salon was a small stage with a models’ runway that extended about two-thirds of the way into the room. Cate stood on the end of the runway. Ian and a handful of Ian’s assistants, holding fashion sketches in their hands, were with her. Notable by his absence was Elijah, presumably still being worked on in the changing rooms behind the stage.

“Hail and well met,” Sean announced gaily. He held up a bottle of the Taittinger. “I’m throwing a shindig to christen the Quality Man and you’re all invited.”

As one every head swiveled in his direction. Cate, impeccably dressed in a slim black Dior skirt matched with a white silk blouse, pearl earrings and a retro chic black pillbox hat that might have (and probably had) belonged to Jackie O, set her hands on her hips and glared at him. Ian, as ever a vision of sartorial splendor in a perfectly cut black suit and dove gray silk tie, wasn’t glaring, but he didn’t appear particularly happy either.

Uh-oh, thought Sean. This did not look promising. He set down the champagne and stepped up onto the runway while Andy unburdened himself of the rest of their loot.

“Ian, it’s great to see you,” Sean said, extending his hand to the designer, who drew Sean in for a Parisian style double cheek kiss. Ian still wore the same outrageously expensive aftershave that he always had, and the scent roused some pleasant memories for Sean. He and Ian had a history, having enjoyed a brief fling years earlier from which both had fortunately emerged with hearts and egos and friendship intact—no small feat in the fashion industry, which was littered with the fallout from romances gone wrong. “Now, about the guest of honor,” he added. “Where is he and how does he look?”

“If he’s here, he looks invisible,” Cate said bluntly

Shit. “He didn’t show?” Sean couldn’t believe it.

“He did not.”

Double shit.

“I am jeopardizing my position with _Harper’s Bazaar_ and _Vogue_ ,” Ian complained. “And all for a boy who does not show up.”

“You’re much too important for jeopardy, Ian,” Sean said.

Normally a dose of flattery worked to placate Ian, but this was clearly not one of those times, for instead Ian’s mouth tightened. “He was supposed to be here at ten and it’s now past five. Forget about this irresponsible boy and find someone else.”

“We’ve already started the campaign, Ian. We can’t find someone else,” said Cate.

“Did you try calling the hostel?” asked Sean.

Cate’s glare returned. “No, I tried reaching him using astral projection, only it appears he wasn’t inhabiting the same plane as I was at the time.”

Ouch. Cate was pissed all right. But with good reason. She’d put herself, the magazine and her reputation on the line by choosing a complete unknown to be the Quality Man—and on Sean’s advice. The buck stopped with him.

“These gentlemen are waiting to do Elijah’s face and hair,” Cate went on implacably, waving her hands. “Ian needs measurements. Where the devil is he?”

Something Elijah had said in the bookshop came back to him: If I went to Paris, it would be to go to Viggo Mortensen’s lectures.

It didn’t take an advanced degree in Empathicalism to figure out where Elijah must be. Sean would have sworn that Elijah was nothing if not conscientious, but apparently he’d been wrong. He hadn’t let the grass grow under his feet, but raced to worship at Mortensen’s altar practically the second his plane set down at Charles de Gaulle Airport. Sean felt a shaft of emotion that he told himself was annoyance.

“Well, I wouldn’t like to swear in court, but I have a pretty good idea where he is,” he said, hopping down from the runway and striding quickly towards the door.

“How nice,” Cate called after him. “Do keep it to yourself. Don’t let us in on it.”

“Don’t worry,” Sean assured her. “I’ll have him here tomorrow morning at ten o’clock without fail. In the meantime, have a glass of champagne on me.” He saluted Cate smartly and went to hail a cab.

_____________________________

 

By the time Sean disembarked from the cab that had brought him to the Boulevard Saint-Germain in the Latin Quarter it was dark out and the weather had turned cool and misty. He paid the cab driver then turned up the collar of his rain coat and set out in search of a likely watering hole for Empathicalists. It was some years since he’d visited this corner of Paris, with its crooked narrow cobblestone streets and abundance of outdoor cafés, flower stands, bookstores and boulangeries, but it appeared very much the same as it always had. Students from the Sorbonne passionately debating politics sat cheek by jowl with grizzled men smoking Gauloise cigarettes as they hunched over a chess board. Music spilled from the open doors of clubs, punctuated by the tinkle of passing bicycle bells.

There was a timelessness about the Latin Quarter that no amount of cell phones or ‘wifi gratuit’ signs could erase. It was still a haunt for intellectuals, the ghosts of Sartre, Camus and Hemingway very much present. Sean could easily imagine Elijah feeling at home here in a way he never could in the tonny Place Vendôme or on the touristy Champs-Elysées. Another flicker of that emotion Sean called annoyance passed through him. Well, whether Elijah liked it or not, he was now part of that other world. He had a responsibility to Cate and Ian as well as to Sean, too, damn it. After all, he’d stuck his neck out for Elijah, and while Madame la Guillotine might no longer be in use in Paris, that didn’t mean there weren’t other dangers, namely losing his position as principal photographer for _Quality_.

Discovering Elijah’s whereabouts proved remarkably simple. Sean simply stopped the first likely looking Empathicalist he encountered, a young man in a faded tee shirt, sandals and jeans with a scruffy beard, overlong hair and an Elijah-like earnest expression, and asked him where the Empathicalists hung out.

“ _Le Cave des trois Graces_ in the Rue Laplace,” the young man replied.

“Merci bien,” said Sean.

“Pas de tout.” He gave Sean a curious look. “You are an Empathicalist?”

Apparently he wasn’t giving off the right vibrations. “Only in my spare time,” Sean said.

_____________________________

 

 _Le Cave des trois Graces_ was labyrinthine and poorly lit— in other words, a typical Left Bank café. A four piece band was playing atonal jazz and people were dancing, as well as standing on their heads, or having impassioned arguments that ended with an ‘Oh cherie!’ and an equally impassioned embrace. Oh, those crazy Empathicalists, Sean thought with amusement. A woman stopped him and asked him to dance with her, but even if he wasn’t there for an entirely different purpose, Sean preferred to dance to music that actually had a rhythm.

“Sorry, I’m here to pick up the wife and kids,” he told her, and continued on his way.

“There’s no doubt in my mind that in less than ten years,” a familiar voice said, “people everywhere will understand that Empathicalism, and only Empathicalism can bring peace.”

Bingo! The Quality Man was found.

Elijah was seated at a small table with three middle-aged men, three wine glasses, and two partially empty bottles of red wine. So engrossed was he in his conversation with them that he didn’t notice Sean approaching. This suited Sean just fine. After all the anticipation, he discovered that he needed a few moments to collect himself now that Elijah was finally in his sights. He propped his shoulders against a wooden pillar and feasted his eyes on Elijah. The reality far exceeded expectation.

Without braggadocio Sean could claim to have photographed the most beautiful men and women in the world, people like Orlando Bloom: tall, dark, with classic good looks. By comparison, Elijah ought to have looked small and unprepossessing, a Shetland pony among thoroughbreds. But Sean didn’t have to view him through a camera’s lens to recognize that certain elusive something that Elijah, all unknowing, possessed. He’d spent the day with Andy scouting for potential locations and he couldn’t wait for Ian and Cate to be done with Elijah so he could have him all to himself. Finally he would be able to indulge his longing to take picture after picture after picture of Elijah. He felt giddy at the prospect, like a kid in a candy shop. Never had he been so captivated by a face.

“Peace through understanding,” Elijah went on, “is the only possible...” Sensing that someone was watching him, he turned his head and saw Sean. Immediately a beaming smile overspread his face; Sean’s heart gave a queer little lurch. “Sean! I didn’t expect to see you here. How are you?”

“Just fine thanks, and how are you?” Sean replied then added sardonically, “And exactly how long have you been in Paris?”

The sarcasm went unnoticed. Apparently Elijah’s empathicalistic powers didn’t run to sarcasm. “This is Sean Astin,” Elijah, still beaming, said to his companions. “These are my friends,” he said to Sean, sounding proud.

“How do you do?” Sean said. “Gentlemen, would you mind if I had my own conversation with Elijah—in private?”

Elijah jumped in. “I’m afraid they don’t understand English,” he said apologetically.

Sean raised an eyebrow. “But you were talking to them in English.”

“It’s difficult to explain,” he said earnestly, “but it’s all part of Empathicalism. We don’t have to communicate in words. They understand me through the way I feel and the tone of my voice.”

“Sort of like a dog, you mean?” It was a cheap shot, and Sean knew it, but it aggravated him to see Elijah so clearly being taken advantage of and blissfully ignorant of the fact.

Elijah stiffened and the happiness vanished from his face like a candle snuffed out. “Obviously you don’t understand.”

Aggravation morphed into annoyance. Exactly why he was annoyed, Sean didn’t care to examine too closely. “Who’s buying the wine?” he asked.

“I am,” Elijah said.

“I understand more than you think.”

“If you’re trying to imply that it’s the wine...” began Elijah hotly.

“Let me show you something.” Sean straightened and came around to the table. He picked up one of the wine bottles and immediately Elijah’s three friends raised their glasses, like baby robins waiting for their mother to feed them. How apropos, Sean thought. “Gentlemen,” he said in a jocular voice, “may I take this opportunity to tell you that you look like a mess of worms? And that you not only look like a mess of worms, but you are a mess of worms, and I bet that you’ve been sitting here all these years because if you left, you’d be picked up on a vagrancy charge.” He ended with a chuckle, and his audience smiled, nodded and said, “Bravo,” as if he’d made an inspirational speech and they agreed with every single word.

Elijah’s disbelieving gaze went from one man to the other. Hurt replaced disbelief. It was very much akin to kicking a puppy, Sean thought, but he hardened his heart. It was for Elijah’s own good. He needed to understand how he was being duped.

“The defense rests,” Sean said, setting down the wine bottle.

“I don’t think this is funny,” Elijah said stiffly. “You don’t belong here.”

Sean was surprised by how much that remark hurt. “Neither do you,” he retorted, nettled and ready to give Elijah his comeuppance. “Which brings us to why I’m here. Tell me something, you talk an awful lot about this empathy stuff, but do you ever do anything about it yourself?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“How about throwing some empathy my way?”

Elijah’s brow wrinkled. “I still don’t know what you mean.”

“How do you think I feel when you don’t show up for the job? I’m responsible for you.”

“Show up where?” Elijah sounded honestly baffled.

“At Ian McKellen’s _salon_. They’ve been waiting for you there all day.”

“Oh no.” Elijah looked horrified.

“Oh yes. And I’m the one wearing egg on my face. Any good Empathicalist ought to feel me standing in line for unemployment insurance.”

“But I had no idea,” Elijah said. “Nobody told me.”

“Cate has been calling the hostel for hours trying to get hold of you,” Sean said.

“Oh no! I’ve—I’ve been here at the café all day.” Elijah jumped up from the table, almost upending his chair. He grabbed his jeans jacket from the back, shrugged into it and made a beeline for the exit, without even pausing to say goodbye to his friends. Although saying goodbyes was probably redundant if one was an Empathicalist, Sean thought.

“Is she very pissed at me?” Elijah asked as they exited the café and emerged into the misty night. He didn’t have to explain who ‘she’ was. It appeared that fear of Cate trumped every other emotion.

“Do you really need an answer to that question?” Sean replied to Elijah’s question with one of his own. “I’m pretty sure you already know what it is.”

Elijah fell silent. His head was bent, and he looked even younger than his tender years and touchingly vulnerable. But once again Sean hardened his heart. While Cate and Ian and the others had been fretting, Elijah had been hanging out at a café, seemingly without a care in the world, having given not a thought to his responsibilities.

“I’m terribly sorry,” Elijah finally said in a small voice.

“Tell it to Cate and Ian,” replied Sean. Hardening his heart was getting tougher and tougher, as was resisting the urge to put an arm around Elijah and comfort him. But instead he went on, “And another thing, I don’t want to sound like the personnel department, but you ought to be getting to bed early. You know, the camera picks up everything. I don’t want to spend my entire life retouching your pictures. When we’re done, you can spend all night in the café making small talk if you want.”

Elijah flung his head up. A combative spark lit his eyes. “Small talk?” he repeated. “I suppose you think the cut of a suit makes for world-shaking conversation. Anything you don’t understand you call small talk.”

The scorn in his voice stung. Elijah seemed to have a unique capacity for getting under Sean’s skin, pricking soft spots in his armor and reminding him that he, too, had once been young and idealistic. Not that he was ashamed of his work as a fashion photographer, far from it, but he’d aspired to be the next Dorothea Lange, not the next Richard Avedon.

Concluding that it was wiser not to belabor the point, Sean decided a diversion might be in order, “So what did you think of Professor Whatsisname?”

“Don’t change the subject.”

“It is the same subject.”

“I haven’t met Professor Whatsis—I mean Mortensen.”

“You haven’t?” Sean huffed a laugh. “By now I’d have thought the two of you would be best buddies.”

“Well, you don’t find him in cafés except on special occasions. Not everyone interested in Empathicalism gets to meet the Professor, any more than every American meets the President,” Elijah said. “An invitation to his home is a great honor, and as hard an invitation to get as an invitation to...”

“The White House?” Sean supplied tongue-in-cheek, when Elijah seemed stumped for a comparison. Had he ever been so painfully earnest?

“I don’t think jokes about Professor Mortensen are funny,” Elijah said, compressing his lips.

“All right, no more jokes. But let’s be friendly, okay? We have to work together, you know.” Sean recalled the beaming smile with which Elijah had greeted him earlier. He’d done a bang up job of transforming that smile into a frown.

“We don’t have to be friendly to work together. Acquainted will do.” Another prick at Sean’s soft underbelly. “Am I supposed to go over to the _salon_ now?”

“I told them you’d be there at ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”

“I’ll be there,” Elijah said at once.

“Promise?”

“I said I’ll be there and I will.” He spoke quietly, but with an edge to his voice.

Sean relented. “All right.”

“This is where I get off. Good night,” Elijah said, turning in the arched entrance to a courtyard. He clearly considered their conversation at an end.

“Wait.” Sean went after him. “Don’t go away mad. Can’t we take a walk around the block and get friendly or better acquainted or something?” He shouldn’t have allowed his annoyance with Elijah to get the better of him like he had. Ham-fisted, that’s what he’d been. Hard to believe that he, Sean Astin, renowned for his charm and his ability to get along with even the most temperamental of models, couldn’t have handled Elijah better. It was that damnable talent Elijah possessed for getting under his skin that was to blame. No one had ever affected him quite the same way, left him unsettled and off balance.

But Elijah kept right on walking. “No thanks. I’ve got to go to bed.” He paused on the doorstep of the hostel and glanced over his shoulder at Sean. “I don’t want you to spend your entire life retouching my pictures,” he added sarcastically.

“You are pissed, aren’t you.” Shit. Shit.

“No, I’m not pissed,” Elijah said, opening the door. “I’m hurt, and I’m disappointed... and I’m pissed.” He slipped inside and shut the door squarely in Sean’s face.

Sean stared at the closed door, feeling like a grade-A jerk. He wanted to make amends somehow, bring back Elijah’s effervescent smile, and he wanted to do it right this minute, now, tonight. But how?

He stepped back from the hostel into the center of the stone-flagged courtyard and took a look around him. As he did, lights came on in a room on the second floor. It had to be Elijah’s room. Suddenly inspiration struck; he patted his pockets and grinned. He knew exactly how to make Elijah smile again.

_____________________________

 

Elijah flicked on the light switch and closed and locked the door. He took off his jeans jacket and draped it over the back of a chair, his movements tense and jerky. 

Anger was an unaccustomed emotion for him, but he was definitely experiencing it now. Uncle Ian would tell him that anger was self-defeating, that he should put himself in Sean’s shoes and try to understand why he’d come down so hard on Elijah for an honest mistake, why he’d ridiculed Professor Mortensen and trivialized Empathicalism.

But as he slumped down onto the bed and toed off his sneakers, anger drained away and hurt became his predominant emotion. When he’d seen Sean in the café, he’d felt only pure, undiluted joy. Sean had never been far from his thoughts during the hectic week leading up to his departure for Paris. When it all seemed unreal—he was going to Paris!—or intimidating—him, Elijah, a model!—he’d think of Sean, recall the flattering things he’d said and his conviction that Elijah had what it took to be the Quality Man, and it would calm him right down.

And never far from his thoughts, too, was the Kiss. Like Sleeping Beauty, he’d been awakened by a Prince Charming, and there was no going back to sleep. And the truth was that he didn’t want to. Sean was without a doubt the most attractive man Elijah had ever met, and despite the way he’d acted tonight, Elijah would welcome a repetition of what had happened in the bookstore. Only it didn’t seem likely to happen, given the events at the cafe. Which should be cause for celebration considering the way Sean had acted, but only left Elijah unutterably depressed.

 _You’re a shallow person, Elijah Wood_ , he told himself. _Falling for a man like Sean._

He was jarred out of his unhappy musings by a noise. Something had struck a glass pane in the double doors that opened onto a balcony outside his room. He was about to dismiss it as a fluke when the sound was repeated, as if someone was trying to get his attention. Curious, Elijah rose from the bed and went to investigate. He pushed the doors open, stepped onto the balcony... and got a shock. Sean was below him in the courtyard. He’d removed his raincoat and stood with legs slightly apart and his arms held in front of him and bent at the elbows with his hands fisted.

“Sean,” Elijah hissed, “what are you doing?”

For answer, Sean shook his head slightly as if asking for silence, and the next instant he tossed a small red rubber ball into the air. It was joined by a second and then a third. Elijah stared in amazement. Sean was juggling! Unconsciously he moved forward and leaned his elbows on the black wrought iron railing, the better to watch Sean perform—and a performance it was. Sean juggled the balls not simply around and around, but in intricate patterns that left Elijah agog with wonder. Moving lithely as a dancer, Sean tossed the balls high in the air and twirled in a circle, catching them again as they descended without missing a beat and sending them soaring once more.

“Oh bravo!” Elijah said, smiling widely and clapping his hands in delight, and Sean grinned and said, “You ain’t see nothing yet!”

He pulled a fourth ball from the pocket of his sport jacket and sent it spinning into the air, and then a fifth. How he could possibly keep track of the balls and not drop them was a mystery to Elijah. Those deft hands that Elijah had admired in the dark room were moving so fast they were almost a blur. Glistening beads of perspiration had popped out on Sean’s forehead, proof positive of how demanding the exercise was, but despite Sean’s frown of concentration, Elijah sensed only buoyancy and joy emanating from him. Sean was having fun.

With a flourish Sean sent the balls high into the air one final time; as they came down he caught them and put them in his pocket. The performance was over. He placed a hand over his heart and bowed deeply as Elijah clapped enthusiastically, not caring if anyone was disturbed by the noise.

“Sean, that was fantastic,” he enthused.

Sean bowed again. “Thanks,” he said. “Juggling was one way I helped put myself through college.” He strode over to a fire escape ladder on the wall to Elijah’s left, and quickly climbed it. Then he crossed to the balcony using the branches of an ancient crab apple tree.

Elijah’s heart was beating fast as he watched Sean’s progress. What did Sean plan to do now?

“Another way I helped to put myself through college was this,” Sean said, and like magic a blue paper flower appeared in his hand. He offered it to Elijah. “Friends, Elijah? Please?” he asked.

His eyes were intent, serious. They held Elijah captive, but a willing captive. It would be churlish in the extreme to reject the flower and what it symbolized. And he didn’t want to.

Elijah took the flower; a tingle passed through him as his fingers brushed Sean’s. “Okay,” he said, smiling. “Friends.”

With Sean standing so close, there was no chance of missing the relief that passed over his face. “Thanks.”

Silence fell. Elijah twisted the stem of the paper flower nervously in his fingers. Friends, Sean had said, not lovers. Why then did he wish so fervently that Sean would kiss him again? But unlike in the bookstore, Sean didn’t appear to be using Empathicalism and putting himself in Elijah’s place, and Elijah wasn’t brave enough to make the first move.

“Well, it’s late and you need your sleep,” Sean said. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning at the _salon_. Good night, Elijah.” He stepped back onto the tree branch and crossed to the fire escape ladder.

“Good night, Sean,” Elijah called softly after him, and with an aching heart watched Sean descend to the ground, retrieve his raincoat, and with a backward wave disappear through the archway.

Elijah returned inside and shut the balcony doors. He set the flower on the bedside table and started to undress. As he pulled off his clothes he wondered what would have happened if he had been brave enough to initiate another kiss. Would Sean have followed him in here? Made love to him with those deft hands and sensuous mouth?

 _You’re crazy_ , he told himself as he lifted the duvet and slid into bed. Sean isn’t interested in you that way. He wants to be friends, that’s all. It doesn’t matter what flattering things he’s said. He works with the most beautiful people in the world, people like that Orlando Bloom guy. What would he see in a skinny, pale shrimp like you? Get real.

But Elijah didn’t immediately turn off the bedside lamp. He lay there staring at the blue paper flower, thinking of ‘what ifs’.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elijah is transformed into the Quality Man, and has his first taste of modeling. He finds it very different from what he expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many thanks to the awesome and amazing Hildigard Brown for the manips in this and the following chapter. The outfits Elijah wears were chosen by my readers on LJ from some of the many fashion shoots that he has done over the years. Once again some of the dialogue comes directly from the movie.

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When Elijah arrived at the _salon_ next morning punctually at ten o’clock, he felt rather like a Christian about to be thrown to the lions or possibly a martyr about to be burned at the stake. Lying in wait for him were Cate, Sean, Andy, and a tall, intimidating and supremely elegant gentleman with glacial blue eyes who turned out to be the fashion designer Ian McKellen.

“Well, so you’ve decided to grace us with your presence,” Cate said. “We’re honored.”

“Cate, I’m very sorry,” Elijah began contritely, but she had already forged onward.

“Yes, yes, I know, but we don’t have time for that now,” she said. “Ian, he’s all yours. We’ll be back after lunch for the grand unveiling. Andy, Sean, come along. I’ve got work for you.”

Instinctively Elijah turned to Sean, his only ally, and cast him an imploring look. Sean gave him a reassuring smile. “You’ll do fine,” he mouthed and made a thumbs up gesture. Far from believing him, Elijah wanted to beg Sean not to abandon him, but it appeared he was on his own. He watched the others disappear, which left him feeling even more like the hapless Christian. There was something rather leonine about Ian McKellen, come to think of it, with his full mane of silver hair.

The designer spoke not a single word to him, but, setting a hand to his chin and cupping his elbow in his other hand, prowled in a slow circle around Elijah. His face was expressionless but those glacial blue eyes missed nothing as they scrutinized him. Instinctively Elijah straightened as if Cate was pulling back on his shoulders again. He raised his chin, refusing to be cowed. He might not be a proper model, but he wasn’t ashamed of who and what he was.

A hint of what might have been a smile tugged at the corners of Ian’s mouth. Abruptly he came to a stop in front of Elijah. “I could wish you were a foot taller, but perhaps Sean hasn’t entirely lost his senses as I feared,” he said in the poshest of posh British accents. He snapped his fingers. His four assistants, who had been hovering in the background, sprang forward. “Let’s get started.”

~*~

Sean paced back and forth at the end of the runway. It was well past lunchtime, and still there was no sign of the Quality Man or Ian.

“What are they _doing_?” he asked as he passed Cate, who was also pacing but in the opposite direction. “They’ve been at it for hours.”

“There was a _lot_ to be done,” she replied, to which sentiment Sean could raise no argument.

Just then there was movement behind the silver-gray velvet curtain drawn across the stage. Two of Ian’s assistants emerged from behind it, talking softly to each other.

“They don’t look happy,” remarked Cate doubtfully as they stepped off the runway and seated themselves on an elegant Chippendale sofa.

“They don’t look _un_ happy,” replied Sean, trying to be optimistic.

The other two assistants followed a few moments later and joined their compatriots on the sofa.

“I can’t tell. Do they look pleased?”

Sean shrugged. “They don’t look _dis_ pleased.”

Finally Ian emerged from behind the curtain and strode purposefully toward them. He’d removed his suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves, a concession that proved what a task he’d been up against.

Cate said, “Maybe this is the grand finale.”

At last, thought Sean. He was on tenterhooks, dying to see Elijah and at the same time, almost afraid to see him. If Ian and Cate were disappointed, his was the head that would roll, and rightly so. “Well shit, I’m getting nervous.”

“You _should_.”

“Gee, thanks, Cate.”

Ian stopped on the end of the runway. “Sit down,” he ordered, pointing to Sean and then Cate.

Cate took a seat with unaccustomed meekness while Sean perched a hip on the edge of a marble-topped table. This is it, he thought. The designer, as Sean knew better than anyone, had a flair for the dramatic that extended well beyond his clothing designs. Either Ian was about to lace into him or he was about to be proven a genius. Sean fervently hoped it was the latter.

“My friends,” Ian proclaimed, stepping down from the runway, “you saw enter here a waif, a bedraggled kitten, all eyes and ruffled fur. We bathed and groomed him, but it is not a cat that has emerged.” He looked straight at Sean.

_Oh shit._ “It’s not?” Sean asked apprehensively.

“No,” Ian said. “It is a panther, blue-eyed, sleek, elegant… and deadly. Lights!” he cried, whirling round and raising his hands, like a maestro conducting an orchestra. Immediately all lights in the room dimmed save three spotlights aimed at the curtain. “Curtain!”

The curtain began to rise.

~*~

Behind the curtain Elijah had been waiting for his cue, nervously running over and over the final directions that Ian had given him. _Look straight ahead of you, keep your face expressionless, don’t make eye contact with anyone, walk with easy, steady strides, don’t cross your feet, don’t move with too wide a stance, don’t swagger or sway, and for god’s sake, young man, whatever you do, don’t mince._

Fuck. How could he possibly keep that straight? He was probably going to trip and take a header off the catwalk right in front of Cate and Sean. 

His palms were definitely damp and he’d have liked to dry them on his legs, but he was wearing black velvet pants and he didn’t dare risk damaging them. Until today he’d thought Cate the most terrifying person he’d ever met, but she had major competition in Ian McKellen.

Elijah had had some idea what he was in for after Cate and her crew got through with him, shaving his scruff, trimming his hair and even subjecting his (to quote Cate) ‘utterly disgraceful’ nails to a manicure. But that was nothing compared to what Ian considered necessary to whip Elijah into shape.

Uncle Ian had raised him to consider vanity the worst of all flaws (next to bibliophobia, that is). Elijah typically rolled out of bed in the morning, fished around in the clean laundry basket for the nearest available clothes, and pulled them on without a thought to wrinkles or color combinations. To say that he was unused to being fussed over was the understatement of the century.

Appalled when he saw the open make-up case that one of Ian’s minions had at the ready, Elijah had tried to expostulate, but he’d no more uttered the words ‘Uncle Ian says’ than he was silenced by a minatory stare from Ian McKellen who had clearly been warned by Cate of the existence of another Ian in Elijah’s life.

“Young man,” he’d snapped, “is your uncle a fashion designer?”

“No, he runs a bookstore called _Embryo Concepts_ ,” Elijah replied.

“Then what he has to say is of the supremest indifference to me, and you’ll oblige me in future by refraining from mentioning his opinion on _anything_ unrelated to bookstores.”

Elijah had subsided. He’d stripped to his boxer briefs and stood meekly while he was measured from head to toe and everywhere in between, his dick about the only part of him _not_ put to Ian’s measuring tape. Clothes were tried on him, clothes unlike any he’d ever worn in his life, and marked with tailor’s chalk so the alterations could immediately begin.

Then he was sat in a salon chair and worked on by Henri, the make-up artist, and Yves, the hair stylist. His hair was styled, gelled and sprayed, his eyebrows streamlined by a few discreet tweezer plucks, his skin, that Henri enthused over, calling it ‘complètement merveilleuse’, lightly covered in foundation and powder, his lips coated in clear gloss, and his eyes, that Henri said with reverence were ‘totalement magnifiques’, enhanced by eyeliner.

While Henri’s ravings had Elijah squirming inside with embarrassment, he managed to keep his calm on the outside, perhaps because he hardly recognized the Elijah staring back at him from the mirror. It was simply too weird.

Alain the dresser took over from Henri and Yves, and when they were done with him at last, Ian had looked long at Elijah and finally said, “I can think of a thousand models, male _and_ female, who would kill for those eyes, young man.” He smiled, a crooked, rueful smile. “By god, if I were thirty years younger, I’d give Sean a run for his money.”

Not expecting the lion to mute his roar, Elijah had blushed and stammered in confusion, “But we’re not… he’s not…”

“Then he’s more of a fool than I took him for.” Ian had dropped his hand, stepped back and said brusquely, “Straighten up, shoulders back. It is time to practice your runway walk.”

Now the practice was over. He was about to go live.

“Lights!” Elijah heard Ian declaim like a Shakespearean actor. “Curtain!”

The curtain went up. Light dazzled in Elijah’s eyes. Count to five, Ian had told him, and then start walking.

_One one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand._ The sound of his heart almost drowned out his silent countdown. _Four one thousand, five one thousand._

He started walking.

~*~

The curtain lifted.

And there, in a pool of light, stood Elijah.

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v368/biinfc/Funny%20Face/?action=view&current=Runway2.jpg)

Cate let out a long ‘Oh’ of satisfaction, but Sean was bereft of even so much as an ‘Oh’.

Elijah’s hair was swept up and back off his forehead. With his wide smooth brow uncovered he appeared older, sophisticated, no longer the boy but undoubtedly a man. He might lack the height of a true professional model, but no one looking at him could think anything else lacking. He wore Ian’s clothes beautifully, as Sean had thought he would, for his figure was perfectly proportioned.

Ian had chosen for Elijah’s debut a boxy black crinkled leather jacket open over a black knit tank top, narrow-legged black velvet pants and shiny black patent leather dress shoes. And in a touch typical of the designer, the lower half of Elijah’s face was concealed by a black leather bandana, knotted at the back of his head. It added a touch of mystery to the new Quality Man, and of danger, too, as if he were a supremely elegant highwayman.

What held Sean transfixed weren’t the clothes, however, but Elijah’s eyes, huge and lustrous above the bandana, their vivid blue the only trace of color in an otherwise black and white palette. He marveled once more at the singular manner in which they caught and held the light, even more apparent with his other facial features disguised. Sean’s hands instinctively moved, groping for the camera that was, alas, not hanging around his neck.

After posing in the spotlight for several seconds, Elijah started to walk. He held his head high and moved with the easy, confident grace of the panther Ian had called him, as if he outright owned the runway. Sean, tearing his gaze away to gauge the reactions of Cate and Ian, found them both nodding and smiling with approval.

A surge of emotion rose inside Sean, but it wasn’t triumph or self-satisfaction at having been proven right in his judgment. Rather, what he felt was pride. Elijah _had_ to be nervous on the inside, but not a trace of those nerves showed on the surface. He’d risen to the difficult, demanding challenge magnificently.

At the end of the runway Elijah halted, and Sean rose and came forward, breaking into spontaneous applause. Cate, Ian, Andy and the others joined him. They surrounded Elijah, who pulled the bandana down to reveal a shy smile and cheeks crimson with embarrassment.

Cate said buoyantly, “Marvelous, Elijah! Why, I don’t be _lieve_ it.”

“Cate, what did I tell you?” Sean didn’t bother to hide his smugness, knowing himself completely vindicated. “You look absolutely fabulous,” he said to Elijah. “How does it feel?”

Elijah’s smile widened. “It feels wonderful, but kind of strange, to be honest.” He held his arms out to the side and looked down at himself, laughing a little in disbelief. “This isn’t _me_.”

Cate walked around him. “The hair, the clothes… it’s perfection. You see how much we accomplish when you appear? Now _do_ try to stay with us for a while.”

“I will,” Elijah said. “I’m very sorry about…”

But Cate, true to form, cut him short. “Now,” she steepled her hands at her breast and started pacing, “Ian shows the collection on Friday evening. A few hours before, I’m giving a party to introduce you to the press. It is your great opportunity; it will be _your_ moment.” She paused, dropped her hands and gave Elijah a pointed look. “You _will_ be there, won’t you?”

“Yes, of course,” Elijah said.

“Sean, that gives you a week to photograph Elijah in the collection,” Cate went on. Her words were as sweet music to Sean’s ears. “I want _mar_ velous pictures. Give me a lot of pizzazz! Now take him with my blessing and whatever you do, for God’s sake _don’t_ let him out of your sight!”

“Don’t worry,” Sean replied on a huff of laughter, “I have no intention whatsoever of letting him out of my sight.” His eyes met Elijah’s and what he saw there caused his heart to give another of those queer little lurches. _He’s as excited as I am at the prospect of working together._ It was the icing on the cake of success.

~*~

Elijah had taken to heart Sean’s promise not to let him out of his sight, so he was undeniably disappointed when, as they exited the _salon_ after Elijah had changed back into street clothes, Sean said, “I’ll meet you here tomorrow morning at 9 o’clock sharp.”

“But I thought you promised Cate not to let me out of your sight,” Elijah said lightly, trying to make a joke out of it in an effort to disguise his disappointment. He’d counted on having dinner with Sean and then after… well, who knew?

“Cate didn’t mean for her words to be taken literally, Elijah,” Sean chuckled, and Elijah’s heart cracked a little. “Besides, I’ve got a ton of prep work to do for the shoots.”

“I could help you,” offered Elijah.

“It’s nice of you to offer, but I already have an assistant, Marcel, to help. If you want to know, the best help you can give me is to have a healthy dinner and then go straight to bed.” Sean set a thumb and forefinger to his lips and whistled, short and sharp, and a cab pulled up to the curb as if it had been off-stage waiting to make an entrance, or had possibly been hidden up Sean’s sleeve all along. He opened the back door and gestured to Elijah to get in.

When Elijah was seated and had given the cabbie the hostel address, Sean bent down. “Sleep well, Elijah, and don’t worry about a thing.” He leaned in and brushed a light kiss across his mouth. “Trust me,” he said softly, “you’re going to knock Paris on its ass.”

Before Elijah had time to react, Sean straightened and shut the door. As the cab pulled away and merged into the flow of traffic, Elijah touched his fingers to lips that tingled just as they had after that other kiss in the bookstore, and wondered if Sean had been practicing Empathicalism again or if kissing Elijah was entirely his own idea this time.

It had begun to drizzle. Gaily colored umbrellas passed to and fro on the sidewalk as the cab crawled through the crowded streets. His trip to Paris so far hadn’t matched any of his expectations, Elijah thought, trying to sort through his emotions and put them in order. He had about as much success as he’d had straightening the shelves at _Embryo Concepts_ after Cate and her minions finished ‘rearranging’ them.

He would never admit it to Sean, but his first experience meeting his fellow Empathicalists had been a crushing disappointment. He’d sensed from the beginning that those men were intent on using him, and it hadn’t required any particular skill at empathy to divine their motives either; he’d more wished to believe than truly believed that they understood his ramblings about Empathicalism. But in his exuberant naïveté he’d rushed to the café convinced that he’d find Professor Mortensen there, spend hours listening to him discourse on Empathicalism, and perhaps even work up the nerve to ask him a few of the many questions he had.

Instead, he’d spent those hours being taken advantage of, buying bottles of wine he could ill afford for three men who’d seen a sucker coming a mile away. If he was honest with himself, something his uncle had inculcated in him since the day he took Elijah in after his parents were drowned in a boating accident, the reason he’d been so furious with Sean was because he knew that he was right.

How ironic then that in complete contrast, his first outing as a fashion model had been the uplifting experience he’d expected at the café. He’d meant what he said to Sean; it _had_ felt wonderful to wear those clothes – exhilarating, even _fun_. As a child he’d enjoyed playing dress up, pretending to be someone he wasn’t. And apparently he still did. He was well aware that his uncle wouldn’t approve. Uncle Ian would point out, rightly, that the circumstances were completely different; but even so, nothing could dampen Elijah’s delight at having so thoroughly astonished and impressed Cate and (for so he chose to believe) Sean as well.

Professionally, that is. Elijah sighed and watched droplets of rain chase each other down the cab window. His transformation hadn’t meant anything to Sean personally. That much was obvious, despite the kiss. He couldn’t wait to be rid of Elijah, had rejected his offer of help. It hurt, so much so that for an unworthy and extremely childish moment, Elijah considered not returning to the hostel, but going straight to the café and spending the night there, maybe getting rip-roaring drunk into the bargain. Immediately he was ashamed of himself for harboring such an idea. What sort of Empathicalist was he, anyway? Sean was counting on him, as were Cate and Ian. Whatever his opinion of fashion magazines might be, Elijah couldn’t deny that the people involved in producing them worked hard at their jobs. He’d witnessed their work ethic first hand. He owed it to them, therefore, to give them his very best.

If a tiny voice whispered that he had another motive, he ignored it.

~*~

Friday - Au Supermarché 

The weather continued gray and gloomy next morning, the clouds spitting rain at intervals, but nothing could dampen Sean’s spirits. He’d been up nearly all night, loading plates into cartridges for the Deardorff and with Marcel’s help organizing the darkroom he'd rented for the duration. But who needed sleep when there was work to be done, and such work as photographing Elijah? He hadn’t felt this much anticipation over an assignment in years, if ever.

Yves and Henri got Elijah ready, doing his hair and makeup and helping him into his newly altered outfit for the day, a smart blue-striped seersucker three-piece suit, white button down and navy silk tie.

“Where are we headed?” Elijah asked. He, Sean, and Marcel were in a cab with the Deardorff, which Sean tended to think of as a personality in its own right, occupying a vacant seat. Yves and Henri followed in another cab with the rest of the equipment.

“Au supermarché,” replied Sean.

“The supermarket?”

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

“I am, though. Shouldn’t we be doing the shoots at the Eiffel Tower or the Arc de Triomphe or something?”

“We’ll mix things up a bit. We don’t want the Quality Man to be boringly predictable.”

“Cate definitely wouldn’t like that,” agreed Elijah with feeling. “’What, no pizz _azz_?’” It was a very creditable impression of her voice.

Marcel laughed and so did Sean. “You’re a fast learner,” he said, inordinately pleased by this glimpse of slightly snarky humor in his protégé.

The cabs disgorged them in a somewhat rundown neighborhood in front of a store that was nothing in the least like the smart, upscale supermarket that Elijah had been expecting, but very much like the kinds of markets he frequented in the Williamsburg section of Brooklyn, where he and Uncle Ian lived. This had the effect of making him feel at home, and insensibly calmed his nerves.

It was raining again, so Yves opened a large black umbrella and held it over Elijah as they walked the short distance from the cab to the supermarket entrance. Sean walked beside him with the carefully covered Deardorff cradled in his arms, while Marcel and Henri, burdened by the remainder of the equipment, followed after them. Elijah’s conscience warred with the reality that any offer of help would be turned down. It didn’t sit right, but what could he do? He was the star of the show and his only job requirement was to look good.

That they were expected became clear as soon as they walked in. It was nothing like the invasion of _Embryo Concepts_. Not only were they expected, they were welcomed with open arms - literally. A small dark white-aproned man rushed to meet them and embraced Sean, kissing him extravagantly on both cheeks, talking all the while. Sean introduced him to Elijah as Michel, and as Elijah shook hands with him, his dark eyes looked approving. “Ah, qu’il est beau, Sean,” he said. “Ravissant.” That much French Elijah could translate without difficulty, and he was put to the blush yet again.

Sean grinned. “Mais bien sûr,” he agreed.

“How do you know him?” Elijah asked a few minutes later, trailing Sean through the store. Sean was full of surprises, it seemed. He’d never have envisioned a fashion photographer for _Quality Magazine_ shopping anywhere but _Fauchon_ or some other upscale market.

“I spent a year in Paris after graduating from college,” Sean said. “I rented a room around the corner and I used to do my shopping here. I was pretty much dead broke at the time, but Michel never let me go hungry. I paid him in photos. I was shooting with a Leica camera back then,” he added, a nostalgic look on his face. “Manual of course. I still use it sometimes; it takes great photos.” He came to a halt. “Here we are. Sweets for the sweet.”

Elijah found himself confronting a long display case with rows of rectangular wire baskets filled with candy in brightly colored wrappers.

“But I don’t eat candy. Uncle Ian says…” Elijah caught himself, but it was too late.

Sean was unfolding the legs of the Deardorff’s tripod. “Okay,” he said without missing a beat, “it’s time for some ground rules. First and foremost: no mention of your sainted Uncle Ian, _comprendre_? Second: when we’re working, you aren’t Elijah Wood.”

“I’m not?” Elijah asked in confusion. “Who am I then?”

“That brings us to ground rule number three: you’re whoever I tell you to be. Now go stand over there.” Sean pointed at a spot in front of the candy display.

Obediently, Elijah did. “What do I do now?”

“You wait until we get the equipment set up, I check the light meter, and Yves and Henri make sure you look scintillatingly gorgeous.”

“Should I be pretending to be someone else while I wait?” Elijah asked as Henri dabbed at his face with a powder puff and Yves did something to his hair.

“Ground rule number four: don’t interrupt while we’re getting things ready.”

“Sorry.” Elijah subsided. Perhaps he should be morally outraged by Sean’s bossy behavior, but somehow he couldn’t rouse a righteous indignation. And there were compensations for having to stand idle while Yves and Henri fussed over him and Sean and Marcel fussed over the Deardorff, the lights and reflectors and other arcane equipment that Elijah had no name for. The compensations all involved Sean, of course, and the opportunity to admire yet again those deft hands that were, he privately admitted, becoming rather an obsession of his. In fact, everything about Sean was becoming rather an obsession of his. Now that he’d been awakened by the magician’s kiss, he couldn’t go back to sleep again. Nor did he want to.

“All right. We’re about set,” Sean said some half-hour later, raising the light meter around his neck and taking a final reading.

Elijah had a major attack of nerves. _Oh my god,_ he thought, _my face is going to be plastered on the cover of thousands of magazines and all over the Internet. I can’t do this. I’m no model. I’m a bookstore clerk._ Even worse, he was the cynosure of all eyes: of the small crowd of people who had gathered beyond the lights to watch and of Marcel, Yves and Henri. Not to mention Sean, whom he very much feared to disappoint.

“Now, here’s what I want you to do.” Sean spoke in a calm and matter of fact voice. “First, choose a piece of candy. Unwrap it part way as if you’re planning to eat it, but don’t. Instead, hold the candy in your hand and give me a wistful expression. Got it?”

“Wistful expression. Right.” That didn’t sound _too_ terribly difficult.

Sean picked up the remote shutter release for the Deardorff. “Ready? Go ahead.”

Elijah faced the candy baskets - and stood there, overwhelmed by choice, paralyzed by indecision.

“What’s wrong?” Sean asked after a few seconds.

“I… I don’t know which candy to choose.”

“It doesn’t matter. Pick any one,” Sean said.

Elijah heard a titter from somewhere behind the lights. He flushed with embarrassment. “I’m sorry,” he said, turning round. “I guess I’m kind of nervous. I’ve never done anything like this before.”

Sean dropped the shutter release and came up to him. So did Yves and Henri, for more last second hair primping and powder applying. “There’s nothing to be nervous about. You’re going to be great.” He reached up by Elijah’s ear and made a plucking motion; when he withdrew his hand, he was holding a shiny copper one-cent Euro piece. “Well, look what I found in your ear. A lucky penny.” He offered it to Elijah with a smile.

Somehow, despite the hovering Yves and Henri, and the others watching in the background, as Elijah took the coin, warm from Sean’s fingers, he had a sense that the two of them were alone. Perhaps it was the intimate smile that seemed to say, _You can do this, Elijah, for me._ And just like that, he could. It didn’t matter who was watching. All that mattered was Sean, who believed that Elijah could do this, that he had what it took to be a good model.

Elijah put the penny in his pocket and smiled back. “Thanks,” he said, and he wasn’t talking about the penny piece.

“You ready to give it another try?”

“Yeah, I’m ready.”

“Good. Now remember, I want a wistful expression.”

Confronted once more with the candy display, Elijah didn’t hesitate, but quickly made his selection and started to unwrap it. It was some sort of caramel, he thought, but what it was didn’t matter, as Sean had said. What mattered was assuming the wistful expression that Sean wanted from him. Well, that was easy enough. All Elijah had to do was imagine how he’d felt in the bookstore after Sean left, that yearning for a life of the senses that he’d never known existed until then.

Holding the caramel in his left hand, he faced the camera. He grasped the edge of the display case in his right hand, and leaned on it slightly, as if it were his only anchor in a sea of memory.

“Perfect!” Sean exclaimed. There was a click, and then he said, “Okay, let’s get another one.” 

Elijah held the pose. He was looking off to the side, but out of the corner of his eye he could see Marcel remove the used plate from the Deardorff then insert a new one. They were a team, Elijah thought, Sean and Marcel, and now he was part of that team. Would he ever really fit in, though? he wondered wistfully.

“Wonderful,” Sean said. “I like that expression even better, Elijah.” Then he frowned. “Wet your lips.”

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v368/biinfc/Funny%20Face/?action=view&current=Wistful.jpg)

Elijah lost track of time as they worked. Sean moved them from place to place in the store, had Elijah try different poses and expressions. He was a demanding task master, although he never lost his temper or showed the slightest impatience with Elijah or any of the crew. Nor did he waffle over where or how Elijah should pose, but had an unerring instinct for what would work best. The modeling actually started to become fun for Elijah once his nerves had gone, and he even tentatively offered a couple of small suggestions that, to his delight, Sean accepted.

They took a break for lunch, which Michel had prepared for them, and then it was back to work again. 

When Sean announced, “All right, that’s it. We’re done for the day,” Elijah was startled. Was it really that late? As the tension drained from him, he realized that he was exhausted. 

“Great job, everyone,” Sean added, but he was looking straight at Elijah as he spoke, and weariness disappeared, replaced by a glow of happiness at the approval in Sean’s eyes. He’d done good.

The glow lasted until they were outside on the sidewalk with the equipment piled beside them. It was past three o’clock, the rain had stopped and the sun was shining. As they waited for the cabs to arrive Sean said, “Marcel and I are heading over to the darkroom. I want to get started on developing these negatives. Yves and Henri will accompany you back to the _salon_.” 

Elijah returned to earth with a thud. The glow faded. 

Sean slung an arm around Elijah’s shoulders, gave him a squeeze and said, “You’re a natural, you know. No one would ever guess that you’d never modeled before.”

“You made it all easy, Sean,” Elijah said, torn between joy at the praise and despair at the brotherly embrace. “Thanks for being so patient and understanding.”

Sean gave him another squeeze and removed his arm. “Let’s see if you feel the same after a week of me ordering you around,” he joked. “Here, I think you earned this.” With a flick of the wrist a piece of wrapped candy appeared in his hand, the same caramel that Elijah had picked out for the photo. “I’m sure your Uncle Ian won’t mind if you indulge just this once.”

But Elijah didn’t indulge. Instead, when he got back to his room at the hostel, he placed the candy and the penny on the bedside table beside the blue paper flower. Uncle Ian would probably prefer that he eat a barrel full of candy rather than fall in love with a fashion photographer. Unfortunately, Elijah was now pretty well certain that that was exactly what he had done.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The photo shoots continue, and at their end Sean makes a startling discovery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again my sincerest thanks to the amazing Hildigard Brown for creating most of the manips in this chapter (those she did not create were made by me).

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v368/biinfc/Funny%20Face/?action=view&current=funny-face-wallpaper.png)

"Wow," Elijah said, "this is gorgeous. What's it called again?"

"The Fontaine de l'Observatoire," replied Sean. "Dedicated in 1874."

"How'd you know that?" asked Elijah, looking impressed.

It was tempting to claim an erudition he didn't possess, but Sean said, "I read the dedication plaque." He pointed at a brass plate inlaid in the pavement around the fountain, close to where they were setting up for the shoot.

"Oh." Elijah giggled. "I didn't even see that. I was distracted by the turtles."

"Cute, aren't they?" 

"Yeah, but kind of an odd match for the rearing horses and the naked ladies holding the globe, don't you think?"

Sean laughed. "You have a point." What Elijah really had, he thought, was a refreshing point of view. He wasn't jaded, didn't pretend to be, and wasn't afraid to say what was on his mind. Something that was proving to be a little bit of a mixed blessing: witness the number of times he'd gotten under Sean's skin.

Yves and Henri set to work touching up Elijah's make-up and fixing his hair. Already the young man seemed, if not completely at ease, at least resigned to letting himself be worked on. He seemed much less nervous than the previous day, and Sean was glad. Surprisingly, he was more glad for Elijah's sake than for his own, although it certainly made his job easier to have a model who was relaxed..

"Did you get any good pictures yesterday?" Elijah asked, obediently standing stock still as Yves wielded the powder puff.

"Did I." Sean huffed a laugh. "Cate and Andy are going to have a hell of time deciding which ones to use in the magazine."

"Really?" Elijah sounded incredulous.

"Don't sound so surprised. You're a natural, kid, like I told you yesterday." Elijah was getting better at accepting compliments, too, only blushing a little. Although if he knew that Sean had stayed up most of the night, working in the darkroom like a man possessed long after he sent Marcel home, he probably would be beetroot red. But Sean kept that information to himself. 

Yves and Henri finished readying Elijah, and Marcel inserted the first plate into the Deardorff.

"Okay, we're all set." Sean picked up the shutter cord. "Today, you are happy."

"Why am I happy?" Elijah asked, wrinkling his brow.

"Because _I_ say you are," replied Sean firmly. "Now go over by the fountain and look happy."

Elijah went. When he got to the low stone retaining wall, he turned to face the camera. He had a smile fixed to his face - of sorts. The sort that wasn't going to photograph at all well as it was beyond forced.

"I said happy, not constipated," Sean said, and Marcel clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle a whoop of laughter.

"I don't know what to be happy _about_ ," Elijah complained.

"Well, what would make you happy right now? Do it. Get happy."

"Okay." And then to Sean's surprise, Elijah kicked off his shoes and pulled off his socks. 

"What are you doing?"

"Getting happy," Elijah said, and climbed over the wall and into the fountain. The water wasn't deep, only reaching to the middle of his calves. "Brr, it's cold." He hopped from foot to foot.

"Is that your happy dance?" Sean teased.

"No, this is," Elijah retorted, and started kicking at the water, sending it in arcs through the air where it caught the spring sunlight and glittered like diamonds. 

"Brilliant! Keep it up," Sean exclaimed, wandering with the shutter release in his hand, waiting for the perfect moment to shoot. "Harder," he said. "Kick the water harder."

Elijah let it rip like a footballer going for a goal in the finals of the World Cup.

_Click._

"Perfect," Sean said, and then he exclaimed, "Elijah!"

In his enthusiasm, Elijah had kicked so hard that he overbalanced, and with a startled cry fell backward onto his ass in the water. He sat there stunned for a second and then started to giggle helplessly.

"Marcel, _vite_ ," Sean snapped, but Marcel was already on it, sliding the next cartridge into place. 

_Click._

"Another," he demanded.

_Click._

"One more."

_Click._

Behind him, Sean heard Yves moan, "Oh, Monsieur McKellen, he will be furious. His beautiful clothes, ruined."

"Some sacrifices are worth making, Yves," Sean replied, but almost absently. His eyes were still fixed on Elijah's lovely, laughing face.

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v368/biinfc/Funny%20Face/?action=view&current=elijah_wood_01.jpg)

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v368/biinfc/Funny%20Face/?action=view&current=HappyElijahsmall.jpg)

Sunday - Ghosts of Montmartre

"We're shooting in an abandoned _house_?" Elijah stared at the dilapidated building off the Avenue Junot with a disbelieving expression on his face. 

Sean could understand. It was a sorry sight, with its broken windows, sagging shutters and peeling paint. The small yard in front was choked with straggly weeds and surrounded by a rusting metal wrought iron fence that had once been decorative but was now an eyesore. 

But all he said in reply was, "Yep." And then he hoisted the Deardorff to his shoulder and climbed the front steps. The door was locked, but he gestured to Marcel, a man of many talents, and the dapper little Frenchman took out a credit card and jimmied the lock. 

"Voila!" Marcel opened the door with a flourish.

Sean couldn't decide if Elijah looked more shocked or impressed by Marcel's B&E skill. It was a toss up. He chuckled and said, "Pretend you didn't see that."

"But why are we shooting here?" Elijah asked as they went inside. "Isn't it, well, illegal or something? How do you even know about this place?" 

"A good photographer makes it his business to know all the best places to shoot," Sean said, avoiding the illegality question. The way he looked at it was, what the _gendarmes_ didn't know wouldn't hurt them. 

"I don't see what makes this such a great place to do a fashion shoot," Elijah said in bewilderment. "It's just a dirty old house going to rack and ruin." 

Which was indubitably true. The interior was in no better shape than the exterior. The yellowed wallpaper was peeling off in great swaths and broken glass from the windows littered the stained and faded carpet. Wires protruded from holes in the walls and ceiling where lighting fixtures had once been. 

"I'll show you what makes it such a great place. Follow me." Sean made for the steep, narrow wooden stairs and started climbing. Behind him, Yves and Henri who, unlike Marcel, were not inclined to embrace a life of crime, were whispering to each other in rapid fire French. He suspected Ian was going to get another earful like he undoubtedly did about the ruined jacket. Ah well. 

The house was three stories high, and the top story had once been a painter's atelier. The plain white-washed room took up the entire floor. It had a large skylight, the glass cracked and dirty but miraculously intact, and wide, glass-less windows on three sides. A faint, lingering trace of turpentine could still be smelled, and the splintered remains of a wooden easel lay in one corner like a dusty skeleton.

But sunlight flooded the interior space and the view of Paris from every angle was spectacular, and Elijah said, "Okay, I understand now. But what a shame this amazing place is going to waste." He walked into the center of the room and turned in a slow small circle as if dancing with an invisible partner. 

"Not entirely to waste," Sean said, watching him. "But yes, I agree. Someone needs to buy it and restore it to its former glory." He set down the Deardorff. "For now, though, it's going to provide a perfect atmosphere for our shoot. Let's get started."

Everyone settled quickly into their usual routine, and in short order the lights, reflectors and camera were ready, and Elijah was ready, too. Sean rarely noticed a model's attire except as it related to the lighting and how to use it to the best advantage, but the brown pin striped shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow, tan vest and slim fitting black jeans, along with the upswept hair style, made the elfin young man look masculine as hell and drop-dead, eye-catchingly sexy.

It disturbed Sean that he was noticing; he'd been doing this job too long to notice. But he explained it away by telling himself that Elijah was in a sense his protégé, and of course he'd notice. 

"So, what I want from you today-" Sean began, but Elijah interrupted him.

"Let me?"

"Sure, go ahead." Curious as to what he had in mind, Sean watched Elijah move to the window that had a breathtaking view of the Sacré-Cœur at the top of Montmartre. He slid his hands into the back pockets of his jeans and stared out into the distance.

"He was happy here," Elijah said at length. "Happy with his lover, a painter. Only his lover died, and the house was abandoned, and it became the haunt of ghosts. Years passed, until one day he returned, and braved the ghosts. He climbed the stairs and stood at this window, remembering how they'd stood there together watching the sunset turn the dome of the Sacré-Cœur to flame, believing they'd do so together for their rest of their lives."

There was something hypnotic about Elijah's voice, and though Sean was far from fanciful, it gave him a chill. Then the young man turned around and his blue eyes were distant and unfocused as if seeing things that didn't exist.

They stood there in thrall, Sean, Marcel, Yves and Henri, sensing that something more was going on than Elijah inventing a scenario for the taking of a photograph. 

In fact, it felt almost intrusive to Sean to photograph him, but that's what they were there for, that's what Elijah's performance, if performance it was, was for. So he pressed the shutter release. The click cut through the silence; Elijah seemed to come back to himself and looked at Sean like one wakened from a dream. 

"Sorry. I didn't mean to go all weird on you like that," he said, and he was visibly shaken. 

"That's all right," Sean replied, but he was a little shaken himself, if he was being honest. Deciding it was best to get things back on a normal footing as soon as possible, he said, "Why don't you go stand under the skylight now, Elijah."

Nothing more was said about the odd moment, and they finished the shoot, packed up and left, locking the door behind them. It wasn't until they were back at Ian's salon and about to part and go their separate ways, that Elijah brought it up.

"Sean," he said earnestly, "it happened. What I said at the house. Those men existed. They were real. I know they were." His expression was troubled. "You don't think I'm nuts, do you?"

"No, I don't think you're nuts." Sean spoke gently. "This is a very old city. It's not surprising that the ghosts of those who lived here before linger. I expect that someone like you, an Empathicalist, would be more attuned than most to their presence." 

"Did you sense anything?"

"No, afraid not. I'm more the practical, unimaginative type," Sean said. "I'd make a terrible Empathicalist."

"That's not true," Elijah said. "You already are an Empathicalist."

"What, without taking the course?" Sean joked. "Nah, I'll leave that to you and good ol' Professor Whatsisname."

"Mortensen. But it's not about taking a course, Sean. It's about what's in your heart." Elijah reached out and touched Sean lightly on the breast. "And you can joke all you want, but it knows the truth."

Then Elijah turned and went through the double doors into the salon to change back into his street clothes. Sean stared after him and wondered how it was possible for him to feel that light, brief touch right through his leather bomber jacket and shirt.

 

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v368/biinfc/Funny%20Face/?action=view&current=elijahinfrontofmontmartrefinal.jpg)

Monday - the Tennis Court

“Sean, I feel ridiculous.”

Sean raised his eyebrows. “Why?”

“Because first, I don’t know how to play tennis, and second, I have chicken legs. That’s why I _never_ wear shorts. I mean, who would be inspired to buy tennis clothes modeled by _these_?” He glowered down at the legs sticking out of the white tennis shorts as if they offended him. 

Sean was amused by this evidence of vanity on his novice model’s part, especially after his animadversions on modeling and the fashion industry. Elijah wasn’t quite so oblivious to his appearance as he liked to believe. 

But as a matter of fact, Sean saw absolutely nothing wrong with Elijah’s legs other than that they were rather pale. They were shapely and the calves were surprisingly well-muscled for a young man who, as far as Sean could tell, never exercised. An image flashed into his mind of those shapely legs wrapped around his waist, heels digging into his bare buttocks. 

Whoa. Where had _that_ come from? 

“You’re worrying needlessly, Elijah,” Sean said, firmly banishing the intrusive image. “Just leave it up to me. It’s my job to make you _and_ your legs look good, and I will. ”

Expecting an argument, he was surprised when Elijah’s glower disappeared and an almost shy smile took its place. “I know you will. I’m sorry, Sean. I’ll stop bitching.”

Sean felt absurdly flattered by Elijah's faith in him, and that, plus the momentary lapse into eroticism, had him resisting the urge to return Elijah’s smile, as warning flags went up in his brain. Instead he turned to Marcel, who stood at the ready not with a plate for the Deardorff, which was resting while the Canon 400D came out to play, but with two tennis rackets and two cans of neon yellow tennis balls. He knew how to play tennis, unlike the rest of them, and it was his job to teach Elijah the rudiments so he could at least give the appearance of being a tennis player. 

“Allons-y, Marcel,” Sean said. “We’re burning daylight.” Which was as ridiculous as it was untrue.

“Oui, Sean.” 

Yves and Henri stopped fussing over Elijah, and Marcel led the young man onto the tennis court. He demonstrated for Elijah how to hold the racket and then he hit a couple of the balls over the net.

“Comme ça,” Marcel said, stepping back and gesturing to Elijah to take his place at mid-court. “Now you try.”

Elijah did try, Sean had to give him credit for that, but no one had ever looked less like a tennis player. He sent one ball spinning crazily off into an adjacent court, which fortunately was empty, and swung at and missed the other. Sean noted with approval that Elijah giggled when he missed the second ball and said, “Oh geez, I suck,” instead of being embarrassed or pissed off.

Marcel appeared appalled, however. “You do not hold the racket properly, Elijah.” Shaking his head, he went to Elijah and adjusted his grip on the handle of the racket. “Comme ça,” he repeated.

Elijah didn’t do much better with his next attempt. “Non, non, non, non!” Marcel exclaimed. “Here, let me help you.” He moved close behind the young man, put his arms around him and guided him through the motions, showing him how to bring the racket back and follow through correctly.

Seeing Marcel’s dark head pressed close to Elijah’s, Sean had to suppress a surge of annoyance. Was it really necessary for him to plaster himself against Elijah that way? Sean wasn’t about to tolerate unprofessional behavior on the job, and if Marcel was trying to hit on Elijah at the same time as he was teaching him to hit, there would be hell to pay. 

As if sensing Sean’s disapproving eye on him, Marcel glanced his way. Sean raised his eyebrows slightly and gave him a sardonic look; Marcel flushed and hastily stepped back. 

Elijah was oblivious to the byplay. Biting his lip with concentration, he gave the tennis ball a little toss as he brought the racket back and then he swung through and hit the ball squarely in the racket’s sweet spot. Instead of soaring off into space, it skimmed over the net and landed on the court - the _correct_ court.

“Oh wow, I did it!” Elijah exclaimed, and turned to Sean, his eyes aglow. “Did you see that?”

Sean grinned, amused by Elijah’s excitement at this modest achievement and secretly pleased that it was to him, not Marcel, he’d turned first. “I did indeed see it. Well done, Elijah. But one hit does not a tennis player make. Try it again.”

Elijah used up the rest of the balls in the cans, and while his form might not be perfect, he was starting to get the hang of it. But even so, something wasn’t quite right. Sean frowned.

“Oh no, am I totally messing it up?” Elijah asked, his face falling as he observed Sean’s frown. “I thought I was doing pretty well.”

“You are,” Sean reassured him. “It’s not you.” He tapped his forefinger absently against his lips then snapped his fingers. “Got it. It simply doesn't look like you're playing tennis _with_ someone. You need a partner. Okay, Marcel, go on the other side and hit the ball with Elijah."

It was true that Elijah would photograph better but it also served to get Marcel away from him, and Sean was aware of the easing of a tension inside him as his assistant gathered up the tennis balls Elijah had hit (or those of them still within easy reach) and took up a position opposite the young model across the net.

What followed wasn't pretty. It was one thing to toss a ball in the air and hit it. It was another to run after a ball hit by someone else and hit it back. Elijah scurried like a mouse this way and that, swinging and missing or occasionally swinging and sending a ball careening into space, while Marcel stood in the same spot as if glued there. It wasn't necessary for him to move.

Elijah stopped and let his racket fall to the ground with a clatter. He was red-faced and huffing, although some of the redness was clearly attributable to embarrassment. "Sean, this is never going to work," he said, downcast. "Can't you photograph me shelving books instead? It's all I'm good at."

As a photographer, Sean had learned that when things weren't going right, you changed tactics. Nothing photographed worse than a tense, unhappy model. But he found himself unexpectedly ignoring the voice of experience telling him to call it quits and simply pose Elijah with racket in hand and give up on taking action photos. Because, he realized with some shock, he couldn't bear the disappointment on Elijah's face. It roused in him a protectiveness that he'd never entertained for any of his previous models, even those with whom he'd had an intimate relationship. 

"I'm sure you're good at many things besides shelving books, Elijah, and I'm positive you can be good at this, too. The Quality Man," he intoned, doing his best impression of Cate, "not only has charm, rugged good looks and pizzazz, but athletic ability as well."

"Not this Quality Man. Sean..." 

"For me?" Sean added coaxingly.

He was aware that Marcel, Yves and Henri were staring at him in surprise. He couldn't blame them; he was wondering at himself. But Elijah Wood had a strange effect on him, that was plain.

"All right," Elijah said, and picked up his racket.

"Good. Now, keep your eye on the ball as it comes toward you. That's the key." Sean had no idea if it really was the key in tennis, but it sounded like sage advice, and what Elijah needed more than anything at the moment was positive reinforcement.

With very un-model-like grimness, Elijah took up his stance, balancing lightly on the balls of his feet, racket at the ready. Marcel bounced the bright yellow ball twice, then tossed it high over his head and served it, nice and easy. Wonder of wonders, Elijah not only hit it, but the ball landed in the court. 

"There, what did I tell you?" Sean said, but Elijah was scrambling to reach the ball that Marcel had lobbed back. Expecting him to lunge and miss, Sean felt ridiculously proud when instead Elijah hit it back. "By George, I think you've got it," he called, and Elijah's enchanting giggle was both response and reward.

The two men continued playing, and now that Elijah was in the swing of things, so to speak, Sean started taking pictures, wandering as he did, trying different angles and vantage points. He wasn't entirely satisfied with any of them, but he couldn't keep Elijah out there running back and forth forever. 

"One more rally," he said, when Elijah hit the ball into the net, and let out a groan of frustration. "Hey, you're doing great. We'll make a tennis player out of you yet."

Marcel had stayed very quiet through all this, perhaps fearing to incur Sean's wroth. But he piped up now, saying, "C'est vrai, Elijah. You are doing well, very well indeed. Encore," he took a ball from his pocket. "Vous etes prêt?"

They vollied back and forth a few times, and Sean was better pleased with the results. He was about to tell Elijah and Henri they could call it quits, when something occurred that made him very glad he hadn't. 

Henri had more or less remained in the center of midcourt, as Elijah, in common with most novices, hit the ball back to him rather than try to move him around or wrongfoot him. The rallies had all ended with Elijah hitting the ball into the net or out of bounds, and from a certain tension about him, Sean deduced that he badly wanted Marcel to be the one who made a mistake, just once. In Sean's opinion a little competitiveness wasn't necessarily a bad thing, especially in the rather cutthroat world of professional modeling, and he was pleased to see this evidence of it in Elijah.

Marcel lobbed an easy shot across the net. It was a sitting duck and Elijah, almost scowling with concentration, took dead aim on it. He hit it hard and true, and the ball skimmed over the net at sharp angle. Marcel tried to run it down, but he was a step too late. He swung but the outstretched racket hit nothing but air.

"Yee-ha!" Elijah whooped, throwing his arms in the air as if he'd won the French Open final. "I won a point! I won a point!"

"Très bien, Elijah," said Marcel, grinning. 

"Très bien indeed," Sean said. "Now you can rest on your laurels, Elijah. We're all done." 

Elijah walked off the court swinging his racket and whistling as insouciantly as if he were Maurice Chevalier strolling down the Champs Elysées. His cocksure attitude was totally irresistible, and Sean quickly raised the camera and pressed the shutter. 

Bingo. Sean had a hit a winner himself. He only hoped Elijah wouldn't kill him when he discovered that all his running around the court had possibly been in vain.

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v368/biinfc/Funny%20Face/?action=view&current=QualityTennis.jpg)

Tuesday - The Train Station

"Color me shocked," said Cate sarcastically. "You actually answered the phone."

"You're the one who sent me off with instructions not to let Elijah out of my sight. Don't complain if I've been too busy to take your calls."

"A likely story."

"But true." Well, thought Sean, not _strictly_ true. He had been busy, but as often with photographic Elijah as with the real thing. It occurred to him to wonder what Elijah had been up to in the evenings while Sean was immured in the dark room. Hanging out at the café, no doubt, discussing Empathicalism. He frowned, thinking of the two men who had played Elijah like a fish at the café. He really should be looking out for him more, instead of leaving him to his own devices. Hell, he hadn't even asked Elijah if he'd met Professor Whatsisname yet. He'd have to do something about that, he decided.

"If you say so," Cate replied. "So, is our Quality Man working out?"

"And how. Cate, when you get the proofs I have for you, you are not only going to thank me for suggesting him, but nominate me for sainthood."

"Sainthood? _You_?" 

But she sounded indubitably pleased. She knew Sean wouldn't bullshit her about something so important.

"I'm turning over a new leaf," Sean quipped. "Just call me Saint Sean."

Cate snorted. "I suspect you're earning that sainthood. How is dear old Uncle Ian, by the way? I can't tell you how I _don't_ miss hearing about him."

"No idea. When I laid out the ground rules, not mentioning dear old Uncle Ian was at the top of the list."

"And he actually listened?" Cate was incredulous.

Sean felt a touch of impatience and exasperation. "Give Elijah some credit, Cate," he said with some asperity. "He's busting his butt for us and I have absolutely no complaints about his work."

There was a brief silence then Cate said in a conciliatory tone, "All right, I'll give him credit, mainly for giving you no cause for complaint. That truly must be a first. But I do have a bone to pick with you. Ian is not amused that he had to have that black leather jacket remade after Elijah went swimming in it. I had to listen to him wax eloquent on the topic for twenty minutes yesterday, and promise him that _Quality_ would pay for the replacement. It better have been worth it, Sean."

"It was, trust me." Sean had spent the bulk of that night working in the dark room, finally tearing himself away at four a.m. to snatch a few hours' sleep and regretting the necessity. 

"Funnily enough, I do trust you. Well, where are you and the Quality Man off to today?"

"The Gare du Nord." Sean consulted his watch. "And I'd better get going or I'll be late."

"Don't let him throw himself under a train in a fit of remorse over embracing the dark side. I don't want to have to pay to replace another outfit."

"Your concern for Elijah's well being overwhelms me, Cate." 

"No model is irreplaceable, Sean," she said, a warning note in her voice. "You know that as well as I do."

But as Sean disconnected and pocketed his phone, a knot of tension lodged in the pit of his stomach at the thought of something happening to Elijah. Maybe once he'd have agreed with Cate, but no more. As far as he was concerned, Elijah _was_ irreplaceable. 

As a model, of course. 

~*~

"These gloves have no fingers," Elijah said when Sean met him outside the salon. He held up his hands.

"What, you've never worn fingerless gloves before?"

"Noooo. Should I have?"

"They're what all the fashionable Empathicalists are wearing these days, didn't you know? And pretty soon thousands of other men will be wearing them, too, thanks to you."

Elijah scrunched up his face. "That's so weird. Why would anyone wear something just because I do?"

Sean huffed a laugh. "What do you think this is in aid of, Elijah? The whole point is to get people to buy not only the magazine but the fashions featured in it. If we do our job right, then Ian and scores of other people - the fabric manufacturers, the clothing manufacturers, the shops that sell the clothes, the people who work for those shops - benefit. Trickle down economics, in its most basic form."

"I never thought of it that way," Elijah said slowly. "It's a huge responsibility, Sean."

"It is," agreed Sean. "Okay, maybe we aren't finding a cure for cancer or solving the world's problems, but fashion _is_ big business." 

"And hard work," Elijah admitted. "I didn't understand that, either, when you proposed I become a model. I thought people like that Orlando guy had it pretty easy, just striking a pose and standing around. Uncle Ian's right: I still have a lot to learn about Empathicalism."

Which put Sean in mind of his conversation with Cate earlier. "Speaking of Empathicalism, have you met Professor Whatsisname yet?"

"Mortensen. And no, I haven't. I haven't been back to the café. To be honest, I've been so tired every night I just grab a bite to eat and crash at the hostel."

Sean had a sense, from a certain self-consciousness as he spoke, that Elijah wasn't being entirely truthful with him. Perhaps he'd met someone and felt, rightfully so, that it wasn't any of Sean's business. Why that should bother him so much, when he'd blithely assured Elijah that he could have a love affair every hour on the hour in Paris, Sean couldn't say. He _should_ be happy for him.

Spurred by an emotion he refused to call by its real name, jealousy, Sean said, "You can't spend a week in Paris and not experience the nightlife, Elijah. Tell you what, Thursday, after we're done shooting the collection, I'll take you out to celebrate, a proper celebration, Parisian style. What do you say?"

Elijah smiled, and his eyes sparkled with delight. "I'd love to."

"Then it's..." Sean almost said 'a date', but he caught himself in time. It wasn't a date, just a friendly coworkers' night out, that's all. "It's a plan. But first, we've got a lot of work ahead of us." He opened the door of the taxi idling at the curb and held it for Elijah.

~*~

"All right, today I'm looking for heartbreak and suffering. Trains and lovers parting: they go together like chocolate and croissants." 

"So I should pretend I'm a modern Anna Karenina? Do you want me to throw myself under the train?" Elijah indicated the sleek silver TGV high speed train behind him.

"We'll see," Sean joked. Despite Cate's crack about that very thing, and his own reaction to her crack, the very idea was patently absurd. On a list of 'least likely to imitate Anna Karenina', Elijah Wood had to be pretty far up the list. "For now, give me wonderful, noble self-sacrifice." 

He took Elijah by the arm and positioned him near the front of the train. "Okay, here's the scene: your lover has just kissed you goodbye." Sean tilted his head to one side, leaned in and kissed Elijah for the third time, a matter of fact, setting-the-stage kiss this time, although a part of him was aware of the exquisite softness those thrice kissed lips. "You may never know that kiss again, or love again, for that matter."

He stepped back. "Yves, put some tears in his eyes. The Quality Man isn't afraid to shed a few tears."

Yves went up to Elijah with a dropper filled with artificial tears. "But there _are_ tears in his eyes," he said.

"Good," Sean said, picking up the shutter cord. "You're not only a model, you're an actor. All right, Elijah, give me the works: heartbreak, longing, tragedy." He frowned. "Wet your lips."

_Click._

"Wonderful!" At that moment the TGV's horn sounded, reverberating around the platform, and it started to move. "And now step away from the edge of the platform, would you? You're giving me the willies." 

A single silver tear glinted on Elijah's cheek; the heartbreak appeared so real, it scared Sean. 

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v368/biinfc/Funny%20Face/?action=view&current=moderntrainelijahcrying.jpg)

 

Wednesday - Bois de Boulogne

It was drizzling when they left the salon for the Bois de Boulogne, on the west side of the city. But by the time they reached the location Sean had scouted for the shoot, a grove of ancient elm and oak trees, the drizzle had stopped and the sky was beginning to lighten. 

Elijah didn't remove the raincoat that enveloped him from neck to ankles, however. "I have something in mind," he said, and disappeared into the trees with Yves and Henri, carrying the makeup cases, in tow.

Sean watched them go, thinking humorously that Yves and Henri would probably follow Elijah if he intended to jump off a cliff. The two men had developed an undoubted devotion to the Quality Man, and not because he had a _complexion merveilleux_ as Henri put it or eyes like _fenêtres au ciel_ as Yves had enthused. No, it was because Elijah was kind, he was unspoiled, and he treated them with respect. Even more, he was interested in them as people, and Sean suspected that Elijah had learned more about Yves and Henri's personal lives in a few days than he himself had learned in years of working with them off and on. 

"Do you know what this is about?" he asked Marcel as they set up the equipment.

"Je ne sais pas, Sean," his assistant replied, with a Gallic shrug. "But Elijah, he has what you call 'hidden depths'. I like him, very much."

"Oh?" Sean tried to keep his tone neutral.

"Not in that way, I promise you. Have no fears," Marcel quickly added. 

"Fears? I don't know what you're talking about, Marcel," Sean said brusquely, ignoring Marcel's skeptical look. "Now hand me that filter."

Yves and Henri emerged from the trees, looking pleased as punch and secretive as shit.

"Are you ready?" Elijah called from the trees.

"A few more minutes," Sean called back.

"Well, hurry up!"

Sean couldn't help but grin at the impatience in Elijah's voice. He'd come a long way from the unsure young man who had stood frozen with indecision in front of the candy display at the supermarket. 

With one last check of the light meter around his neck, Sean said, "Okay, we're good to go. Whenever you're ready, Elijah."

Almost before the words left Sean's lips, Elijah stepped out from behind a tree.

"Holy _shit_ ," Sean exclaimed, while behind him Marcel frankly gasped and Yves and Henri let out matching sighs of statisfaction. "You look _fabulous_."

Which was a complete understatement. Sean was knocked on his ass ten ways to Sunday by the pure, unadulterated eroticism of the vision before him. _My god. My god, every single woman and man who looks at him is going to want him,_ he thought, and it didn't take any talent as an Empathicalist to arrive at that conclusion. 

For the first time he could ever recall in his career, Sean found himself reluctant to immortalize beauty on film. He didn't want other men seeing those bedroom eyes with their 'fuck me' message, or the dusky nipples partially revealed by the transparent gauze shirt, or the exposed belly and the tantalizing trail of downy hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of his black leather pants and begged to be followed by a questing hand until it reached the cock visibly outlined by the soft leather and closed around it...

"Sean? Aren't you going to take a picture?" Elijah asked.

"Of course," Sean quickly said. "Wet your lips."

Elijah did, and Sean took the picture. He forced himself into a business-like mode, having Elijah strike different poses and move from spot to spot. But the image of Elijah in that moment when he stepped out from the trees overlaid them all, like an erotic filter. He couldn't get it out of his mind then or later that night in the darkroom when he pulled the photo paper from the wash and confronted, not only the 'fuck me' look in Elijah's eyes, but his own desire to answer it.

_It's an illusion_ , he told himself. _You know that better than anyone._ Elijah had proven that he could be whatever he needed to be to fit the occasion: laughing and light-hearted, wistful and longing, broken-hearted and grieving, or sensual and inviting. It didn't prove anything except that Elijah was one hell of a great model. 

And later, back at the _Meurice_ , that Sean wasn't too old to have a wet dream inspired by him.

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v368/biinfc/Funny%20Face/?action=view&current=boisdeboulogne.jpg)

 

Thursday - The Wedding

Over a breakfast of superb coffee and delicious, if fattening, chocolate croissants, Sean decided that the events of the night were the result of not having had sex for too long combined with being in the company of an incredibly attractive young gay guy for too many hours. His body was giving him a message: go get laid. Which was weird, because work had always before been a sovereign remedy for horniness, and never before had he been as enthralled by and engrossed in a project as he was in photographing the Quality Man. 

He didn't get it, but he decided not to worry about it. After all, it was the final day of the shoot. Only the wedding photos remained and his part was done. Tomorrow, Elijah would be at the salon, conducting interviews with the press after lunch, and later that night showing the collection to the glitterati of the fashion world. 

As for Sean, tomorrow night he'd be on a plane, winging his way home to New York, where all the photo shoots he'd postponed in order to go to Paris awaited him, and life would return to normal. Or as normal as the hectic, sometimes maddening work of a fashion photographer got. Sure, he had a sense of let-down at having to leave Paris - his sojourns here never lasted long enough - but such was life.

~*~

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v368/biinfc/Funny%20Face/?action=view&current=chateau_reine_blanche_panoramiquesmall.jpg)

"What do you think?" Sean asked Elijah. "Pretty kickass place to get married, I'd say."

Elijah looked around him at the romantic little church, the picturesque lake complete with a brace of graceful white swans, the abundant trees and spring flowers, but the glow of enthusiastic appreciation that Sean had been expecting wasn't there. 

"It's beautiful," he said, but in truth he sounded rather sad. 

Sean studied him. Elijah had been subdued all morning, ever since they left on the longish drive to the location of their shoot, the medieval Église de la Reine Blanche in the countryside near Chantilly. 

"Is everything all right, Elijah?" he asked with concern. "You seem kind of quiet. You're not coming down with something, are you?"

Elijah shook his head. "No, I'm fine. I just feel so dishonest, dressed up as the groom for a non-existent wedding to an imaginary bride." 

"You've been playing pretend all week - on the tennis court, at the train station," Sean pointed out. "How is this different? I don't understand."

"Yes, I know." Elijah shrugged. "Look, it's not important. I'm being foolish." 

But it was important to Sean, and he immediately set about finding some means of cheering Elijah up, and not simply because he didn't want to photograph a groom who looked like he was on the way to the guillotine rather than the altar. 

"I know what the problem is. You don't have any flowers." With a flick of his wrist Sean produced a pair of pale pink roses. "No self-respecting groom should get married without a boutonniere," he said, flourishing them with a smile.

Bingo. As always when Sean performed some sleight of hand, Elijah reacted with almost child-like wonder and delight. "How do you _do_ that?" he asked, diverted.

"Trade secret. If I told you, I'd have to kill you," Sean joked, pleased with the success of what was really a very simple magic trick. "I'll pin the flowers on you."

He stepped close to Elijah, his gaze focused on the lapel of the tuxedo jacket the young man wore. But as he slid the pin into the fine white satin, he was aware that Elijah's luminous blue eyes, framed by sooty lashes, were fixed on his face. He could feel them almost as a palpable touch, and it was distracting enough that he nearly stabbed his finger with the pin as he pushed it through and fastened it. _Pay attention_ , he scolded himself. He could almost hear Cate's voice bemoaning, "Another jacket ruined! This time you're paying for it, Sean."

"There," he said, managing to secure the pin without shedding a drop of blood. He glanced up and met Elijah's gaze. _Dear god, those eyes_ , he thought, captivated. He brought them to life each night in the dark room, marveling at the manner in which they caught the light and at how they expressed the subtlest nuances of emotion. But even so, he was never really prepared for how they looked in real life. And right now, with Elijah dressed in monochromatic white and black, their blue was so deep and so intense that Sean felt he could stare at them forever and still not have enough.

"Oh, mais quel époux charmant!" said a voice. Startled, Sean swiveled his head to see a black-frocked priest leaning on the ornate stone balustrade above them. He wasn't certain if he were more annoyed or relieved by the interruption. "On ne me pas dit qu'il y aurait un mariage aujourd'hui," the priest went on. "Mais entrez." He gestured toward the open door behind him.

"I'm afraid you've got us wrong, Father," Sean said. "No one's getting married today."

"But such a handsome groom," the priest said in admiring, if heavily accented, English, gesturing at Elijah.

"This isn't my tuxedo," Elijah said. 

"We're here to take some pictures," Sean explained, going up the shallow stone steps to meet the priest. "Nous sommes ici pour photographie pour la magazine de la fashion," he added in French, raising the Canon that hung around his neck. "I'm sorry, perhaps we should've asked you for permission first." That was Cate's influence, he thought ruefully. Just show up and shoot and brazen it out, that was her motto.

But the priest didn't appear put out, only disappointed. "No wedding? Oh, quel dommage!" he said. "But of course you may take your photographie."

Relieved that the kibosh wasn't going to put on the shoot, Sean said, "Merci, Father," and retreated down the steps. But at the bottom there was only empty space where Elijah had been standing.

"Marcel, did you see where Elijah went?" Sean asked his assistant, who was taking equipment out of the back of their rental van.

"He went that way," Marcel said, pointing to a path that led behind the church.

"Thanks." Sean quickly strode after Elijah, still at a loss to understand his peculiar behavior.

"Elijah," he called when he caught sight of him. But Elijah didn't stop; he kept walking so that Sean was forced to run after him, holding the camera to keep it from bouncing on his chest. "Elijah, please stop."

Elijah did stop, but he stood with his back to Sean and his head bent, looking vulnerable and even younger than his years.

It felt oddly to Sean as if he were approaching some wild creature, a deer perhaps, that might bolt and run at any moment. "Elijah? Help me out here. What's going on?"

With a sigh, Elijah turned to face Sean. He looked rueful. "I'm sorry," he said. "I don't know what's the matter with me."

"That's all right," Sean replied. "Forget about it and relax a while. We've been working too hard. It's understandable if you're feeling tired and out of sorts." 

They started walking, side by side, down a gentle grassy slope, and the peaceful beauty of their surroundings seeped into Sean's soul. He hoped it was having the same soothing effect on Elijah.

"I suppose we'll be going home soon, won't we?" Elijah said after a little while.

_Aha_ , thought Sean, seeing the light. "That's it; you're probably homesick," he said. "Well, there's just this last picture and then you'll be through." 

"And then what happens?" Elijah asked quietly.

Sean shrugged. "We go home." 

"And then?" 

"What do you mean?" 

Elijah halted and faced him. "I mean, will I see you anymore?" 

Sean huffed a laugh. "If you continue modeling, sure. I can get you all the bookings you can handle, and then, well, we'll be working together nearly every day." 

At that Elijah finally smiled and said, "Then I'll model."

"Good," Sean replied, touched by the implication that Elijah wanted to continue modeling simply to see him. "Well, we'll put you to work right now. Stand over here, will you please?" He led Elijah to a spot where the church rose behind him, creating a wonderfully romantic backdrop. "Excellent." 

He moved a short distance away and raised the camera to his eye. After fiddling with various settings, he said, "Okay, I want you to look to your right. Pretend you're watching your bride walking solemnly towards you on her father's arm while the Wedding March plays. Perfect. Now, how about another smile?" But Elijah's somber expression didn't change. 

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v368/biinfc/Funny%20Face/?action=view&current=elijahweddingmanip-1.jpg)

"Elijah?"

"Yes?"

Sean lowered the camera. "Something _is_ wrong." 

"No, why?" Elijah said in a completely unconvincing manner. 

"Because you're the saddest-looking bridegroom I've ever seen; you look as if you've been jilted." He walked toward Elijah. "Remember: this is your wedding day. It's a day you've been imagining all your life." He went on, unaware of the emotion that crept into his voice or of how he altered the sex of Elijah's imaginary 'bride', "You're going to marry the man you love: the man who loves you." He placed his right hand under Elijah's chin and gently turned his face toward him. "He's the only... and you're..." 

Sean completely lost track of what he was saying before the look in Elijah's eyes, the same look he'd seen when he was pinning the boutonniere to Elijah's lapel. Only now, as if a curtain had been raised or an obscuring mist blown away, the message that look carried became clear to him, and he wondered how he could have missed it. _You fool_ , he thought. This wasn't Elijah being a great model. This was Elijah being a man, a man who wanted Sean as much as Sean wanted him.

And dear god, did Sean want him.

On the thought, the floodgates opened, and a tempest of passion swept through him; never in his life had Sean experienced anything even remotely like it. Last night's wet dream wasn't even in the same ballpark. He didn't try to fight it, didn't want to. Whether he made the first move or Elijah did, he could never afterward say, all he knew was that Elijah's arms were wrapped tightly around his neck and his lips, those soft, soft lips, parted eagerly beneath his own. 

Sean had kissed Elijah three times before, but they hadn't been real kisses, only pale imitations. This, though, oh this was a _kiss_ , the kind of kiss that rocked a guy's world and knocked him on his ass. And to his surprise and delight, Elijah not only proved Sean's contention that philosophers wanted to be kissed, but he proved that they were damn good at it, too. 

But the kiss, though amazing, wasn't enough to satisfy Sean. With a possessive hunger previously alien to him, he impatiently shoved the Canon, trapped uncomfortably between them, out of the way, and slid his hands down the soft superfine wool to cup Elijah's rear and pull him close. Far from resisting the intimate contact, Elijah pressed into him with abandon and made a guttural, needy sound deep in his throat as their groins touched.

It was that abandon, and what it might ultimately lead to at a time and in a place completely unsuited for unsuiting and getting naked, that gave Sean the strength to stop when he would far rather have pushed Elijah down onto the lush spring grass and made love to him. 

"No," Elijah instinctively protested when Sean ended the embrace, shifting his hands to Elijah's shoulders and holding him at arms' length.

"Elijah, we've got to keep our heads, unless we want to give the good Father a heart attack," Sean said. 

Elijah was gripping Sean's biceps with convulsive force. As Sean's words penetrated the haze of desire fogging his brain, Elijah relaxed his hold and with a resigned sigh let his head fall forward until it rested against Sean's breast. 

They stood that way for a minute or so, not speaking, and as sanity returned, Sean was filled with an aching tenderness even more foreign to him than the passion that had shaken him to the core. 

"You okay, Funny Face?" he asked softly, lightly stroking Elijah's cheek with the backs of his fingers.

Elijah raised his head, and his face was radiant with joy. "Oh Sean, I thought it would never happen. It seemed like all you were interested in was a working relationship, and after yesterday, when I practically threw myself at you and you didn't even notice, I didn't think I stood a chance."

"Oh, I noticed all right, believe me," Sean said wryly, recalling his sticky belly and sheets. "But I thought it was just you being a fantastic model. What can I say? I'm a blind idiot - which is one hell of an admission for a professional photographer to make."

Elijah giggled. "I never want to go home," he declared. "I love Paris and I love modeling. And I love _you_." He caught himself, and with a horrified expression jerked away from Sean. 

"What did you say?" Sean stared at him in amazement.

"I love Paris?" Elijah replied feebly.

"That's not what _I_ heard." Sean started pacing, a hand to his forehead, while the scales fell finally and absolutely from his eyes. "Well, shit," he said. " _Shit_." What he felt wasn't lust, but another four letter word beginning with 'l'. The big one. _The_ 'L' word: Love. 

"Sean, forget that I said it," Elijah said in an agonized voice. "Please?"

"Forget? Are you kidding?" Sean felt incandescent, like a Roman candle about to go off. "Elijah, I love you, too."

"You _do_?" Elijah looked gobsmacked.

"Yes!" A giddy sensation had Sean rushing at Elijah, scooping him up and twirling him madly around. "I love you, Elijah Wood," he shouted, as if announcing it to the world, which, in a sense, he was. "I. Love. _YOU_!" He set Elijah down, and the young man's face was flushed and his eyes were brilliant as stars. "Now let's finish this damned shoot, so we can get the hell out of here and go someplace we can be alone."

With a pat on the ass, Sean herded a giggling Elijah back to the spot where he'd been standing when everything, Sean's life included, was turned topsy-turvy. Only this time, Elijah looked straight at Sean, and there was no need whatsoever to tell him to smile.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paris loves lovers.

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v368/biinfc/Funny%20Face/?action=view&current=funny-face-wallpaper.png)

 

Expecting Sean to direct the cab driver to his posh hotel on the Rue de Rivoli when they left the _salon_ (together at last, he privately exulted) Elijah was surprised when instead Sean gave their cabbie the address of the youth hostel. For a moment, he feared that Sean had changed his mind, but then warm green-gold eyes smiled into his and Sean said, "I figured you'd be more comfortable at the hostel than at a place like the _Meurice_." 

Elijah beamed happily at this evidence of Sean's caring, thoughtful nature, and decided that Sean had the makings of a true Empathicalist. He was certain that Sean's hotel was completely out of his league, like Sean himself, although for some reason Sean didn't seem aware of this fact - and Elijah had no intention of pointing it out.

"Are you nervous?" Sean asked softly.

"No," Elijah replied, and he wasn't. After all, he loved Sean and Sean loved him, so everything else would take care of itself. 

Of course, he _was_ tempted to pinch himself, since it seemed too impossibly glorious to be true, but there was no mistaking the ardent light in Sean's eyes. His thumb lightly caressed the back of Elijah's hand where it rested on the vinyl seat between them, and each stroke was like the lick of a deliciously burning flame on his skin. He'd wanted to know how Sean's large, capable hands would feel on his body, and if this preview was anything to go by, it would be _amazing_.

"Do you think they suspected anything?" Elijah asked. "Yves, Henri and Marcel, I mean."

Sean chuckled. "After the way we were making goo-goo eyes at each other and smiling like the two silliest, sappiest lovers since Romeo and Juliet? Nah. I'm sure they didn't suspect a thing."

"Well, I'm pretty sure Yves and Henri had already figured how I feel about you," Elijah admitted. Both men were dyed in the wool romantics, and unapologetic about it, so it was hardly surprising they'd caught on. 

"In retrospect I'm _very_ sure Marcel already had my feelings figured out. It looks like I'm the only dope in the bunch who was clueless," Sean said.

"You're not a dope," Elijah said with some heat. "Sean, you're smart and you're talented, not to mention accomplished and artistic-"

"Okay, cut it out," Sean interrupted, his cheeks turning red. "You're making me blush, and I haven't done that since I was twelve and my voice started to change."

Elijah subsided, although he could have gone on at length. He'd spent ridiculous amounts of time this past week thinking about Sean and dreaming about Sean and wondering if there were any chance that Sean would ever, ever see him as anything but a model with an annoying uncle and an interest in philosophy.

In fact, he'd barely given a thought to Professor Mortensen or Empathicalism all week, although he'd been too embarrassed to admit it to Sean when he asked Elijah what he'd been up to in the evenings. It was true, though. Instead of discussing Empathicalism with the Professor or his fellow disciples at the café, or hanging out in the hostel common room with the other young people who were staying there, Elijah had spent his evenings alone, walking along the Seine in the rain or sitting at an outdoor table drinking coffee and watching lovers stroll past hand in hand while he imagined it was himself and Sean. Uncle Ian would surely have deplored the waste of time and cautioned Elijah against keeping his head in the clouds. But Elijah was beginning to suspect that his uncle had never been in love, and he rather pitied him. Uncle Ian had no idea what he was missing.

"Arrêtez, s'il vous plais," Sean said to the cab driver, and Elijah looked at him quizzically. Sean pointed at a shop on the right. A neon green sign above the entrance proclaimed 'Pharmacie'.

For a moment Elijah was confused. "Are you feeling ill?" he asked, and then the obvious answer occurred to him. "Oh!" He flushed with embarrassment.

Sean grinned and said, "'Oh,’ indeed. But I’m the one who should be embarrassed. If I told you how long it’s been since I’ve needed supplies, you’d be shocked." He leaned over and gave Elijah a quick kiss. "Sit tight, sweetheart. I'll be right back."

Elijah sat tight, wearing a foolish smile from the endearment, and trying not to make eye contact with the cabbie in the rear view mirror. Maybe he shouldn’t be so happy about Sean’s confession ... but he was.

~*~ 

“I’m sorry the room is such a mess,” Elijah apologized as he held the door open for Sean. The hostel was clean but shabby, its only real saving grace being the balcony overlooking the courtyard where Sean had performed his magic tricks, and Elijah's housekeeping skills, or lack thereof, hadn't helped matters. 

He wasn’t accustomed to neatness and order except at the book shop, where it reigned supreme. Uncle Ian was if anything a worse housekeeper than Elijah, and the Brooklyn brownstone they shared rather resembled _Embryo Concepts_ after Cate and her minions had got through with it. Except that he and Uncle Ian were always able to put their hands on what they were looking for, even if it was at the bottom of a haphazard pile of stuff.

“That’s okay,” Sean said, setting the white paper bag on the nightstand next to the blue paper flower. “I’m not exactly Suzy Homemaker myself, you know.” He lightly touched the flower, a pleased smile quirking the corners of his lips at this evidence of Elijah's sentimentality.

“Yeah, but still...” Elijah quickly gathered up several wrinkled boxers and tee shirts lying crumpled on the floor and dumped them in his open suitcase that was doing double duty as a dirty laundry hamper. He moved to pick up another armload, but Sean stopped him, taking hold of his elbow. His touch raised prickles like heat rash on the sensitive skin; Elijah shivered. 

“Elijah, stop worrying about it.” Sean gave a gentle tug. “Come here.” That ardent light was back in his eyes and his voice had grown husky.

Elijah resisted. “No, I really should...” he began.

“You _are_ nervous,” Sean observed.

“Maybe I am, a little,” Elijah admitted, realizing that Sean was right. “You see,” he went on earnestly, “I’ve never made love with anyone before and I don’t want to be a disappointment to you.” 

“As if.” Sean’s huffed laugh soothed Elijah’s nerves better than his words. “But standing around talking about it won’t accomplish anything except make you worse.” His hand moved from Elijah’s elbow, sliding down his forearm in a warm caress to clasp his fingers. “That bed looks delightfully rumpled and inviting," Sean continued in a husky voice. "I can picture you lying there in the morning sun, naked, pleasuring yourself.”

Elijah had never been in a sauna before, but he suspected he knew exactly how it felt now. Steamy didn’t begin to describe the atmosphere in the room in the wake of Sean’s remark. The wonder was he didn't melt into a puddle on the spot.

“You- you can?” Rats, did his voice have to squeak like that? Elijah was certain that Sean’s previous lovers had been sophisticated and experienced, not gauche and jejune like him.

“Absolutely. In fact,” Sean added, raising Elijah's hand to his lips and kissing it, “someday I’m going to shoot you doing exactly that. But right now, I’m more interested in what we can do together.”

He pulled Elijah to him, and Elijah went willingly, eager to revisit the wondrous sensations that had been so sadly short-lived at the church. His cock was already a pleasurably aching tightness against the zipper of his jeans, and having learned how to relieve the pressure, he wasted no time but pulled his hand free and threw his arms around Sean's neck. He pressed up against him, whimpering as he made contact with that solid masculine body and the firm bulge that pulsed at the juncture of Sean's thighs. Instinctively he undulated his hips, burying his face in the crook of Sean's neck and moaning as the most mind-blowing sensations streaked through him like wildfire.

"Easy does it," Sean said in his ear. He grasped Elijah's hips to stop his undulations, and eased his own away so that they no longer touched.

"Sean, no," Elijah protested, needing that deliriously delightful and delicious friction back.

"Your first time shouldn't be going off like a rocket in your pants," Sean said. "Let's get out of our clothes, okay?"

Seeing the eminent good sense in this suggestion, Elijah went to work, yanking his tee shirt over his head and tossing it away and then attacking his zipper with fevered haste.

Sean chuckled, but Elijah noticed that he was moving pretty fast himself. "I guess we'll save the slow sexy undressing for another time," Sean remarked.

"Sorry," Elijah said, simultaneously toeing off his Chucks and shimmying out of his jeans.

"Don't be. It's pretty flattering, actually."

Elijah kicked his legs free of the jeans. "But you're _gorgeous_." Couldn't Sean see that? Was he blind?

Apparently so, for he said, "Thanks for the props, Funny Face, but guys like Orlando are gorgeous. I'm only average."

"If I say you're gorgeous, you're..." Elijah's voice trailed off as Sean stepped out of his boxers and stood naked in front of him. "Wow." He might never have gotten naked with another guy before, but he'd seen his fair share of erotica and it paled by comparison with the real thing. "I'm gonna steal your camera and shoot _you_ ," Elijah said, shedding his own boxers without taking his eyes from Sean's impressive arousal.

"You know, I used to think you were bad for my ego," Sean said, laughing. "I couldn't have been more wrong." Then his tone changed, turning almost reverent as his eyes devoured Elijah from top to toe, lingering in between. "But trust me, nothing compares to the Quality Man." 

Elijah opened his mouth to argue the point, but Sean reached out and pulled him close, bare skin to bare skin, aroused cock to aroused cock. "Now that's what _I_ call pizzazz," he quipped. 

"Sean!" A helpless giggle emerged from Elijah, but he said, "I don't want to think about Cate right now, _please_." While his opinion of Cate was higher than it had been at first, he was still more than a little intimidated by her. 

"Hmm, you do have a point," Sean agreed. "She's a definite mood killer. Looks like I'll have to do something to make amends."

He did. Retaining his hold on Elijah, Sean shuffled slowly backward until his knees hit the side of the bed. He let his momentum take him, falling back onto the mattress and drawing Elijah down with him. No sooner had they landed, with Elijah draped over him like a human blanket, than he made a lightning quick move an Olympic wrestler might have envied and flipped them so that Elijah was beneath him with his wrists lightly pinioned beside his head.

He was breathing hard and the pupils of his eyes expanded, black consuming green in a potent warning of what was to come. "How's this?" he asked in a seductive growl, shifting against Elijah so that their cocks rubbed together.

Elijah’s only response was an incoherent stutter. None of his imaginings had even come close to the reality of holding Sean cradled between his thighs, of hair-roughened legs, dense muscle, sweat, musk, and the velvet-over-steel heat of his cock, thick and full and burning against him. He'd yearned to be initiated into that mysterious other world, the world of color and light and emotion, and now it was happening and it surpassed his wildest dreams.

There were truths beyond those the intellect could plumb, Elijah thought dimly, truths that didn’t require a degree in philosophy to figure out. No life was complete without them, he could see that now, but he was glad he'd waited to learn them, because it meant that he had this man as his guide.

Then he stopped thinking at all for Sean captured his mouth in a suckling kiss and simultaneously began to rock gently against him. Gentle wasn't what Elijah wanted, however, and he pushed his hips demandingly upward. Sean increased the tempo, and soon they established a rhythm, moving in tandem while they kissed avidly, tongues thrusting and parrying in tempo with the rocking of their bodies. 

Sean released Elijah's wrists to tangle his fingers in his hair so he could deepen their kiss even further. Elijah, free now to touch Sean as he pleased, eagerly stroked his palms over Sean’s shoulders, over his ribs and back, marveling at the satin smoothness of his skin and fascinated by the shift and play of hard muscle beneath it. When he reached the dimpled roundness of Sean’s buttocks, he dug his fingers in, for the pace was rapidly quickening and their cocks, slick with pre-come, were sliding against each other faster and faster in a frenzied mating that left him nearly mindless with pleasure.

Abruptly Sean broke off their kiss, tearing his mouth away to bury his sweaty face in the side of Elijah’s neck. “Shit oh shit, Elijah, _Elijah_ ,” he chanted, his body starting to jerk spasmodically. 

Elijah barely heard him. Instinct had taken over; the blinding need for fulfillment had him firmly in its grip as an intolerable pressure built inside him and every tortured nerve ending screamed for release. When his climax came, he thought he must surely die, for wave after wave of the most intense sensation tore through him, and his entire body felt as if it was flying apart. 

He clung tightly to Sean, his only anchor in wildly tossing seas, until eventually they calmed and he discovered that he was very much alive. Semen was warm and wet on his belly, the skin on his neck tingled where the stubble of Sean’s beard had rasped against it, his lips felt bruised, and muscles in unusual places twinged. Oh yes, he was alive, all right, and he gloried in it. 

Sean was still pinning him down, but Elijah was perfectly content to remain as they were, loving how Sean felt in his arms, with his muscles lax and his cock softening in the aftermath of their lovemaking. They were so close that Elijah could feel the beat of Sean's heart as it gradually slowed. It was the most intimate sensation he'd ever experienced.

Eventually Sean raised his head. He looked dazed, almost stupefied, and Elijah could have purred with pride and satisfaction. “Guess I did okay, huh?” he asked smugly.

Sean’s laugh was shaky. “You Empathicalists sure are full of surprises,” he said, and Elijah giggled. But then he framed Elijah's face with his hands and looked him deeply in the eyes. "How I love you, my sunny Funny Face," he said, and this time when he kissed him, it was with exquisite tenderness.

"I love you, too." Elijah hugged him fiercely and then said, "Sean, can we go for a walk?". Suddenly he felt too effervescent to remain still, as if he were a champagne bottle that had been shaken and the cork was about to pop. And he wanted to walk with Sean as he'd seen those other lovers walk: with clasped hands and eyes only for each other. Maybe it was sappy and cliché, but wasn't that what Paris in the springtime was all about?

Sean looked at him quizzically, but said, "Sure, if you want. I was going to suggest we clean up and go get something to eat." He grinned. "I've worked up quite an appetite - for food, that is. At least," he amended, "food will satisfy me for the moment."

Elijah grinned back and Sean tweaked his nose before lifting himself up - with a little difficulty as their bellies were stuck together with drying come. The process struck Elijah as hysterical and had him giggling helplessly by the time Sean was on his feet. 

"Guess a shower is in order, huh," Sean said, laughing with him. "Care to take one with me?" he asked, holding out his hand. "I can promise to misbehave."

The bathroom was tiny, the shower tinier, but there was room enough for the two of them and Sean made good on his promise. They stayed in so long fooling around that the water started to cool and Elijah tried, and failed, to feel guilty about the waste. They weren't recovered enough to have sex again, but Elijah discovered that it didn't matter; it wasn't about sex, but about intimacy and sharing. Sean revealed a new side of himself, mischievous and playful, and Elijah felt cocooned in love and warmth even as Sean tickled and teased him.

As they dried themselves off with thin coarse towels that even Elijah had to admit were inadequate, Sean said, "No offense, Elijah, but tomorrow night we're going stay at my hotel, where the shower is over sized and so are the towels, and there are fluffy bathrobes and slippers and ... _Shit_."

"What is it? What's wrong?" Elijah asked anxiously.

"I just remembered: I have a flight back to New York tomorrow night at 10:30," Sean said.

"But I'm not leaving until Tuesday," Elijah said, unable to hide his dismay and disappointment. He'd decided to stay in Paris a few extra days to spend time with Professor Mortensen and the other Empathicalists. But that plan no longer held the least attraction for him, and all he could think was that he'd be staying behind while Sean went home to New York without him.

"If you're staying, I'm staying," Sean stated. "I'll just reschedule my flight that's all."

Elijah dropped his towel and threw himself at Sean, who dropped his own towel to catch him in his arms. "You'd do that for me? Oh Sean."

"For you?" Sean huffed a laugh. "I'm doing it for _me_. I'd go crazy without you, Elijah." 

There was only one possible answer to that, and it almost led to them abandoning the idea of dinner to feed an entirely different kind of hunger.

But though tempted by a return to bed, they did dress and go out. It was late, but not by Parisian standards, and Sean took him to a gay-friendly bistro where they sat at a round table so tiny their knees touched. They ate steak and _frites_ and drank a bottle of red wine, and Elijah gazed besottedly into Sean's eyes, green as jade in the flickering candlelight, and knew that Sean was staring back just as besottedly. 

Afterward, they strolled hand in hand along the Seine in the moonlight, exactly as Elijah had imagined them doing, and it was pure magic, even without the red rose that Sean conjured from somewhere and presented to Elijah with a courtly bow. When they returned to the hostel, Sean took the rose from Elijah and set it beside the blue paper flower on the nightstand. Then he picked up the white paper bag. 

"We haven't used these yet," Sean said, a question in his eyes.

Elijah's heart started to race, not with fear but excitement. "Then let's do it."

They did, and that was magic, too.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The course of true love never did run smooth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are familiar with the movie, you may have noticed that I changed the timeline slightly, putting the presentation to the press and the fashion show both on the same day (that's so Sean and Elijah could spend the night together, lol). And in this chapter I have once more used some dialogue from the movie.

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v368/biinfc/Funny%20Face/?action=view&current=funny-face-wallpaper.png)

Freshly showered, shaved, and dressed in Ian McKellen's finest for his upcoming presentation to the press at the _salon_ , Elijah stood on the balcony waiting for Sean to arrive. In what might have been another world and lifetime, he'd have been dreading the upcoming ordeal, wondering what on earth he was going to say to a bunch of fashion journalists, even with the coaching he'd gotten from Cate and Sean on what he was likely to be asked and how he should comport himself. 

But it was impossible to feel apprehensive about anything after last night. If he jumped off the balcony right this second, he'd probably take flight, he thought whimsically, like a colorful, helium filled balloon. Instead, he leaned his elbows on the balustrade, and willed Sean to appear like the magician he was.

He'd told Sean it wasn't necessary for him to come by, that they could simply meet at the _salon_ at noon, but he'd been glad when Sean refused to consider the idea. He already missed him, and Sean had only left a couple of hours ago to go back to his hotel to change. 

Footsteps rang out on the cobblestones below, interrupting Elijah's reverie. It wasn't Sean, however, but a pair of men who were crossing the courtyard toward the arched opening to the street. Elijah paid little attention to them at first, but then something about them struck him as familiar. Of course, he realized. It was two of his companions from the café, the Empathicalists for whom he'd bought wine. His mind shied away from the memory of the bitter quarrel that he and Sean had had on that occasion, not wanting anything to cast a pall over this brilliant morning. Anyway, everything had changed now, hadn't it? Flush with that knowledge and the joy it brought him, Elijah called out to the men, "Hello!"

They stopped and looked up at him in puzzlement, seeming not to recognize him. But then, he supposed he did look rather different from the last time they'd met, in his flawlessly tailored and outrageously expensive designer suit.

"I'm Elijah, from the café, don't you remember?" he said.

"Ah, c'est Elijah!" one of them said, the light obviously dawning, and they beamed and nodded. The other man said something in a spate of French that Elijah didn't understand except for two words: café and Mortensen. 

"Professor Mortensen - is he..." Elijah paused, groping for the words in French. "Est-il au café?"

"Mais oui," the men said, nodding vigorously. "Nous y allons maintenant. Au revoir!" With a wave, they strode away, passing under the archway and disappearing from sight.

Elijah thought furiously. Professor Mortensen was at the café, right that very moment. It might be his only opportunity to meet the man whom he had revered for such a long time. How could he pass it up? Though his priorities might have changed, Viggo Mortensen was the reason he'd agreed to come to Paris in the first place. It would be a pity to return to New York without at least having introduced himself and told the Professor what an important influence he'd been in Elijah's life.

Coming to a decision, Elijah left the balcony and returned inside. Grabbing paper and pen, Elijah scribbled a hasty note for Sean, telling him to pick him up at the café, and left it with the _concierge_ before hurrying off to _Le Cave des trois Graces_.

~*~

The café was unusually quiet when Elijah arrived. No music, no singing, no spirited discussion. Only a man's soft voice disturbed an otherwise hushed silence. There could be but one explanation: the voice belonged to the revered father of Empathicalism, Viggo Mortensen.

It hit Elijah then that at long last he was actually going to meet Professor Mortensen, his idol! His palms grew damp and his pulse quickened. He'd dreamed of this moment for years. What if the Professor was disappointed in him? Found him an unworthy disciple?

As he drew nearer, Elijah got his first glimpse of the legendary philosopher. Casually dressed in jeans, brown leather boots and a tight fitting black turtleneck, Viggo Mortensen was sitting on a wooden stool on the small stage to Elijah's left, addressing an audience of perhaps twenty devoutly attentive people. Elijah crept around the perimeter, intending to take an empty seat at the back, but despite his best effort to be unobtrusive, Professor Mortensen caught sight of him. At once he stopped talking and swiveled on his stool to take a closer look.

Elijah halted, horribly embarrassed by his interruption of the great man's lecture. "Pardon, Professor. Je suis...terribly sorry," he said, flushing. 

"That's quite all right," the Professor said in nearly flawless English that left Elijah even more embarrassed by his own lack of French. "You are very welcome." He turned back to the audience and said first in French and then in English, "We will take a break now."

Before Elijah had time to register more than mild disappointment at the suspension of the lecture when he'd only just arrived, Professor Mortensen got up, jumped lightly down from the stage and came straight over to him. 

"Why, I thought you'd be old," Elijah exclaimed, surprised into bluntness. Viewed from the stage, the man's greying hair gave the impression of someone elderly. But up close, greying hair or no, Viggo Mortensen had the appearance of an energetic, fit and athletic man. Perhaps he wasn't in the first flush of youth and he _was_ considerably older than Elijah, but by no stretch of the imagination could he be called old.

The Professor raised his pale eyebrows. "Did you?"

"Well, um, I mean," Elijah fumbled on, "a philosopher, a professor... It all suggests age, erm, I mean, maturity." He wanted to sink through the floor as he not only inserted his foot in his mouth, but kept sticking it further in.

"I'm afraid I've disappointed you." It was more question than statement.

"Not at all." Elijah hastened to repair the damage and hopefully the bad first impression he'd made. "There's no reason why someone brilliant should necessarily be old." 

"I'm relieved to hear you say so," Professor Mortensen said, smiling. He made a gesture with his arm toward an unoccupied table for two in a dim corner. "But you have me at an awkward disadvantage. You appear to know who I am, but I don't know who you are."

Elijah slid into one of the seats. "I'm sorry; I was so excited to meet you that I completely forgot to introduce myself. You have no idea how anxious I am to speak with you. In fact, I came all the way from New York just to meet you." Emotion choked him to the point that he almost couldn't go on, but he managed to say earnestly, "You couldn't have a more loyal disciple of Empathicalism than I."

"Than whom? I still don't know your name."

A nervous giggle emerged, and Elijah feared that Professor Mortensen wasn't likely to be as charmed by it as Sean was. "I'm sorry," he said again, holding out his hand. "I'm Elijah Wood."

Apparently Professor Mortensen _was_ charmed, for as he took Elijah's hand he replied, "Enchanté, Elijah." His eyes, green like Sean's but the color of the sea not the forest, smiled warmly at him as he pressed Elijah's hand.

Elijah was beyond relieved that his gaucherie didn't appear to have turned the Professor off. 

"Since you have come such a long way to speak to me, by all means let us speak," Professor Mortensen continued, releasing Elijah's hand and sitting down opposite him.

Elijah beamed and launched into speech.

~*~

Sean would have preferred not to revisit the scene of his all-time greatest display of asshattery, but Elijah hadn't left him a choice, only a note informing him that he'd gone to the café and Sean should meet him there. 

Perhaps it was as well, he decided as he descended into the Stygian depths of _Le Cave des trois Graces_. They were expected at Ian's _salon_ at noon "or else" as Cate had texted him not once, not twice, but five times that morning, but if he'd returned to Elijah's room at the hostel, there was a very good chance they'd have been late. Not Parisian-fashionably-late, but Cate-will-have-our-heads-on-a-platter late. He wasn't certain he'd have been able to restrain himself from taking Elijah back to bed, such was the spell his young lover and new-found love had cast over him. 

That knowledge left Sean feeling oddly vulnerable, like a chick just emerged from the shell, with feathers wet and eyes blinking in the sunshine. He'd given up believing years ago that he was destined for a serious, lasting relationship with another man. The Deardorff's position as the great love of his life had been usurped by Elijah, and it was going to take some getting used to, that was for certain - but he was very much looking forward to getting used to it, hopefully over the course of many, many happy years.

Anticipation of seeing Elijah had Sean nearly jumping down the last few stairs into the cellar of the café. But Elijah wasn't among the small crowd of Empathicalists, including the men who had, in Sean's opinion, conned Elijah out of several bottles of wine, who were standing around, glasses in hand, talking in rapid-fire French. Then Sean caught some words in English, and he smiled, a little ruefully. Funny how simply the sound of Elijah's voice lit up his world. It occurred to him to wonder what Cate would have to say when she found out about the two of them. Something memorable, no doubt. Unflattering, but memorable.

He followed the sound toward the back of the room, where a table was tucked into a corner. He could see Elijah, who looked almost as out of place in his dove grey velvet suit as Orli in his white suit had looked at _Embryo Concepts_ , but not whomever he was talking to.

"Have you ever been in America?" Elijah was saying.

"Yes, but not recently. I may go there next year to lecture," a man's voice replied.

"If you come to New York," Elijah said eagerly, "you'd be welcome to stay with me and my uncle in Brooklyn. I can show you around the city, introduce you to other Empathicalists, people who think and do things, _useful_ things."

"Then I most certainly will come. Perhaps we can do useful things together."

It was difficult to say what about this brief exchange most alarmed and annoyed Sean. Was it Elijah's ingenuous invitation? Was it the implication that he would still be living in Brooklyn with his uncle next year? Or was it the intimate tone of the other man's voice as he took Elijah up on the offer and suggested that they could do useful things _together_? 

Alarm bells began dimly ringing in his brain, and when Sean came closer and got his first glimpse of Elijah's companion, the ringing became a raucous clanging. The guy was gorgeous, with the type of rugged good looks that Cate would drool over. This was one of those times when his photographer's eye was a curse, because Sean could easily picture him in an outdoorsy ad for Ralph Lauren Polo, or wearing skimpy briefs in a blatantly homoerotic ad for some outrageously expensive cologne with a name like 'Virile'. 

His eyes having been opened to the truth, Sean immediately recognized the feeling creeping over him. It was the same one he'd felt when Marcel was teaching Elijah how to play tennis and had his arms around him: that pesky devil known as jealousy.

"Well now, I hate to throw a little old wet blanket over this..." he began, trying hard to be jocular, but that was as far as he got. 

Elijah, seeing him, lit up like a klieg light and exclaimed, "Sean, guess who this is! You'll _never_ guess!"

"Your brother," Sean said sarcastically.

The sarcasm was lost on Elijah. "It's Professor Mortensen." He might have said, "It's God," there was such reverence in his voice, and that crawling sensation inside Sean intensified. "Professor, this is Sean Astin." 

_Oh fuck_ , Sean thought. _Oh double fuck_. This was even worse than he'd believed, far worse. Elijah's idol should be old, goddammit, with a scraggly beard adorned by specks of food and with stooped shoulders beneath a moth-eaten tweed jacket sporting worn leather elbow patches. Not clean shaven and wearing a clinging black turtleneck that showed off broad shoulders and impressive pecs.

Mortensen got to his feet and held out his hand - large and perfectly manicured. "How do you do?" he said politely.

Though he was loath to do so, Sean took the proffered large and perfectly manicured hand and briefly shook it. Damn the man, he thought. Did he have to tower over Sean? And a philosopher's grip should be limp, not firm and manly, shouldn't it? 

"How do you do?" Sean said, and then added despite himself, "I thought you'd be old."

"So did I," said Elijah unhelpfully. "Aren't you surprised?"

"I'm overcome," Sean replied.

Mortensen smiled at Elijah, a smile that raised the hackles on the back of Sean's neck like a junkyard dog being teased at the end of a chain. "For you, my dear Elijah, I promise never to grow old."

_That does it_ , Sean decided. _We're outta here_. Moving around the table to Elijah's side, he took his wrist in a firm hold. "Come on," he said briskly, giving a tug, "we've got to get over to the _salon_ right away." Elijah hung back, resisting, which hardly improved Sean's state of mind.

"But Sean," Elijah protested, "can't I stay a little longer? Professor Mortensen wants to talk to me."

"Yes, can't he stay?" put in Mortensen. The look he gave Elijah then turned the alarm bells into Big Ben tolling at noon. "We were only just getting to know one another."

Ignoring this interjection, which raised his already sky rocketing blood pressure several more notches, Sean said, "He won't say anything you haven't heard before," and started dragging Elijah remorselessly away.

Elijah struggled futilely to free himself from Sean's grip. "Sean, what on earth has gotten into you?" he demanded.

"We'll discuss it later," Sean said, towing him up the stairs.

"I don't want to discuss it later, I want to discuss it now."

"Tough." He hustled a spluttering, outraged Elijah through the café and outside to where a taxi was waiting at the curb. Yanking open the door, he thrust Elijah inside, climbed in after him and slammed the door. As far as he was concerned, the sooner they got away from _Le Cave des trois Graces_ , the happier he'd be. The place was poison.

Scowling, Elijah rubbed at his wrist. "Do you care to explain what that was all about?" he asked stiffly.

Sean ignored him and barked the _salon_ 's address at the driver. 

"Just where do you get off, dragging me away when I was in the middle of a conversation with Professor Mortensen?" Elijah went on indignantly as the taxi pulled out from the curb. "How could you do such a thing, humiliate me like that in front of him? Do you have any idea how rude that was? What on earth am I going to say to him the next time I see him?"

"You're not going to say anything to him," Sean said flatly. "You're not going to see Professor Whatsisname again."

"His name is Mortensen," Elijah flashed. "And what do you mean I'm not going to see him again?"

"Exactly what I said." Sean crossed his arms on his chest and stared stonily out the taxi window. He knew he was being unreasonable, behaving like a throwback to the days of the cavemen, but he was too angry and, deep down inside, too scared and insecure to admit it. 

Maybe he would have felt a little better if Elijah had spoken _his_ name with even a smidgen of the same reverence he'd used for Mortensen when introducing them to each other - but he hadn't. Bad enough Elijah considered the man some sort of god-like being, but now Sean had to wonder if Elijah was as taken by the philosopher’s physical appearance as he was by his mind. After all, what sort of competition was a short, stodgy fashion photographer?

"Now just you hang on a minute,” Elijah said hotly. “I went through all this nonsense so I could meet Professor Mortensen and talk to him.”

Sean whipped his head around. "Nonsense? Is that what you call it?" The prick went deeper this time than any of Elijah's previous criticisms of Sean's profession, and hurt was added to the emotional gumbo of his feelings. So despite everything, he thought bitterly, despite the hard work, the camaraderie, Elijah thought being a model was simply nonsense? 

"Compared to what the Professor does, yes, that's what I call it. I worship everything he stands for, the way he thinks. And I'm going to see him again whether _you_ like it or not." Elijah raised his chin defiantly. His color was high and his blue eyes were stormy. 

"Oh you are, are you?" began Sean, his voice rising like Elijah's chin, but just then the taxi came to a stop in front of the _salon_.

Immediately Elijah opened the door, climbed out and stalked off toward the rear entrance.

"Don't you run away," Sean shouted after him. “We’re not done yet.” He fumbled for his wallet, pulled out a few random Euro bills and thrust them at the cab driver. "Here," he said, and then he took off at a run after Elijah.

The cabbie regarded the money in some bemusement; it was four times as much as the fare. Then he shrugged and said, "Ils sont fous, ces Américains."

~*~

The champagne was flowing, the classical music playing, and the hors d'oeuvres were disappearing at a rapid rate. If it weren't for a nagging worry that Elijah wouldn't show, Cate would have been in a state of perfect satisfaction. All was in readiness for the highly anticipated presentation of the Quality Man, and the _salon_ was filled to overflowing with representatives of the fashion industry from every corner of the globe, including the green-with-envy editors of _Harper's Bazaar_ and _Vogue_ , still smarting from how she'd scooped them with Ian McKellen's spring collection. 

Relentless use of social media to circulate a stunning teaser photo of Elijah, sitting on his ass in the water and laughing up into the camera, had ramped up interest in the unknown model to a fever pitch (and convinced Cate to forgive Sean for letting Elijah’s über expensive leather jacket be ruined). Who was he, this Quality Man? That was the question on every lip, not to mention on Twitter, where #QualityMan was, Andy informed her, a trending topic. It was perhaps the most brilliant coup of her tenure as editor-in-chief of _Quality_ , and that was saying something.

She only wished that the Quality Man himself embraced any sort of technology. Elijah's silence in this connected world gave her major _agita_ and a further dislike of sainted Uncle Ian, who was clearly descended from a long line of Luddites. Sean wasn't behaving much better, ignoring most of her texts and all of her phone calls and emails over the past twenty-four hours. _Don't worry, he'll be there_ , was all she'd gotten from him, and one measly time at that. Was that supposed to reassure her, given Elijah’s past history?

If Sean hadn't provided her with proof positive of his and Elijah's industry in the form of the photographic proofs he'd sent her by special messenger, she'd have been breathing fire in between bouts of hyperventilation. But it was impossible to be angry at the man who had seen Elijah's potential and convinced her to give him a try. If the proofs and the buzz in the blogosphere were anything to judge by, Elijah Wood was going to be a sensation. Clearly he had _pizzazz_ , and in spades.

When Andy appeared at her elbow and said, "They're here, Cate," Cate nearly sagged with relief. She turned to Ian McKellen, chatting with a columnist from _The Times of London_. "Get them quiet, Ian," she said, for the crowd was buzzing like a hive of trendily dressed bees. "I'll be right back."

She crossed quickly to the stage and stepped behind the curtain, lowered to hide the set constructed to showcase the Quality Man, and went backstage to where Yves and Henri were clucking over Elijah, dressed in a dove grey velvet suit, ice blue dress shirt, and grey suede shoes, like a pair of broody hens. Almost she wished she hadn't. They were there all right, Sean and Elijah, but apparently in the midst of a flaming row.

“You’re imagining things,” Elijah said. “How can you be so ridiculous?”

"When a man looks at you the way Whatsisname did," Sean said, "it doesn't take any imagination on my part-"

"Mortensen, his name is Mortensen. Why can't you keep that straight?"

"All right, children," Cate said, stepping between them. "Now is not the time." 

They ignored her. 

"Why can't _you_ open your eyes, Elijah, and see what's right in front of you?" 

"There's nothing to see - this is all in your mind, and you're making a complete fool of yourself," Elijah said, sounding scornful.

Cate tried to get things on track. "The press is waiting," she said pointedly. "It's time to go on stage." She might as well have been talking to the air for all the attention they paid.

"If you weren't so unprofessional about this work, you'd understand what I'm talking about," Sean said. He looked flustered and angry and completely unlike his usual self.

"And if _you_ weren't so deadly serious about all this, it would be hysterically funny," Elijah shot back, taking an ice blue shot silk scarf from Henri and draping it around his neck.

"Oh quiet, you two," Cate snapped, losing patience. Sean and Elijah, looking daggers at each other, subsided. "Now, come with me," she ordered in a brook no nonsense tone. They did.

She led them onto the stage, where a variety of potted trees and lush ferns were arranged around an elegant white wrought iron bench and a decorative fountain that was plashing into a round stone basin. On either side, just off stage, a pair of large oscillating fans created a gentle breeze that caused the tree leaves to flutter in a realistic fashion. Behind the trees a painted backdrop of a picturesque ruin, stone stairs adorned with statues, more trees and blue skies added the final touch to the bucolic scene. Above it hung a sign that read 'Quality Magazine'.

"You sit here, Elijah," Cate instructed, pointing at the bench. "In a moment, I'll go up front and make my speech to the audience after which the curtain will be raised. The press and photographers will then be invited up in groups to interview and photograph you. Remember, give 'em the old pizzazz - and whatever you do, _don't_ mention your Uncle Ian or Empathicalism." 

Elijah scowled.

She turned to Sean, whose expression was sour enough to curdle milk. "I want you over there," she ordered, pointing stage right. "And for god's sake, Sean, at least pretend to smile." For answer, Sean bared his teeth in a parody of a smile. "Well," she said, considering, "it'll have to do."

Pizzazz was unfortunately in short supply right now, she thought, but the show had to go on. Hopefully Sean and Elijah would rise to the occasion. 

With a fatalistic shrug, Cate stepped outside the curtain and launched into her speech.

~*~

The instant Cate disappeared from view, Sean said, as if there’d been no interruption, “Whatsisname might be the _Jeopardy_ champion of the universe, he might be the greatest philosopher since Aristotle, but he’s also a man, and I’m telling you that when he was looking at you, he was more man than philosopher.” Was Elijah being willfully blind, that he couldn't see it?

“Are you suggesting that his interest in me is anything but intellectual?” Elijah asked incredulously.

Sean said with blistering sarcasm, “Trust me, sweetheart, he’s about as interested in your intellect as _I_ am.” 

The instant the words left his mouth, he knew he’d made a terrible, terrible mistake.

Elijah turned chalk white, save for two spots of color burning high on his cheeks, and went absolutely still.

Into the dreadful silence a fanfare of trumpets sounded. The show was about to get underway.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the press, my friends," Cate said, her voice somewhat muffled by the heavy velvet curtain, "I have asked you here tonight to meet the man selected to represent the most discriminating publication in the world, _Quality_."

Trying quickly to calm the very muddied waters, Sean said, "Oh, let's forget it and get this ridiculous affair over with."

" _Forget it?_ " Elijah went from chalk white to fiery red so fast it had to have set a world record. "When you attack Professor Mortensen, you're attacking _me_. My principles and the things I believe in," he said passionately and very loudly. "All I can say is that I'm glad we discovered this now, before things went any further between us." 

"He was chosen to represent the men of America, but I'd go so far as to say he represents the men of the world," Cate went on.

It was Sean's turn to go white. "What's that supposed to mean?" he demanded, panic causing his voice rise.

"I am certain you will not be disappointed, for he is a rare creature, chosen from hundreds of candidates for his poise, his brilliance, and his ineffable charm." The relentless and inapt speech went on.

"Exactly what I said."

"Elijah, you don't mean that." Sean felt sick. What had he done?

"Don't you see that we can never reconcile differences this profound?" Elijah said. "I thought you valued all of me, when the only thing you're interested in is having sex with my body."

In the wings, Sean saw Andy, Yves and Henri watching them with identical expressions of horrified fascination - the sort that people about to witness a train wreck would sport.

"That's not true!" Sean protested. "Look, now isn't the time or place for this discussion. Sit down and let's get this fucking show over with."

"Oh yes, the show," retorted Elijah in a voice dripping with scorn. "That's all that matters, isn't it? Not our personal lives, but the _fucking show_."

"Would you _please_ sit down?" Sean said desperately, and made the mistake of taking hold of Elijah's shoulders and trying to push him down onto the bench.

"Get your hands the fuck off me!" Elijah shouted, and gave Sean a hard shove in the chest.

Taken completely by surprise, Sean stumbled back, tripping over a large potted fern. Arms flailing futily, he lost his balance and fell against the backdrop. It rebounded like a trampoline, launching him forward, and he crashed into the fountain, knocking it into pieces. He came to rest on his ass in the stone basin. Icy water gushed from the fountain's base, saturating everything in its path, including him. In the ensuing chain reaction, a tree knocked into one of the fans, and it started to oscillate at full strength.

"FUCK!" Elijah raised his arms to shield his face as the fan blew a torrent of water over him, drenching him and his expensive velvet suit and suede shoes.

"I know that you all will be eager to meet this paragon of perfection," Cate said, or rather shouted, on the other side of the curtain, "so without further ado, let me present: the Quality Man!"

"No! Don't raise the curtain," Sean yelled, but it was too late. With another fanfare, the curtain went up, unveiling a scene of total chaos. 

"Oh dear god!" Cate moaned and put her hands over her mouth in horror.

Behind her many in the audience burst into uproarious laughter, and cell phones were whipped out right and left to capture the Quality Man, sopping wet and cowering on the stage, and immediately tweet the evidence. The photographers in attendance got busy, too, snapping shot after shot of the disaster.

Until that is, the tables were turned by the powerful oscillating fan, which now swiveled in the direction of the audience. First Cate was drenched, and then it sent sheets of water cascading over everyone else. It was as if monsoon season had arrived in the McKellen _salon_. Screams broke out and people dove for cover, hiding behind chairs or crawling under the tables.

Sean couldn't help it; he started helplessly to laugh, though it was nothing like Elijah's joyful laughter when he'd been on his ass in the Fontaine de l'Observatoire. Still, it was better to laugh than cry, and what else could you do under the circumstances _but_ laugh? Had there ever been such a total fiasco in the history of the fashion industry? He very much doubted it.

Then he looked at Elijah, who resembled nothing so much as a drowned rat in his dripping grey suit and with his hair plastered to his head. It was clear that he didn't find a single solitary thing funny about the situation; he wore an expression of horror, humiliation and embarrassment. Sean abruptly sobered, but before he could say anything, Elijah took off. 

"Elijah, wait!" Sean cried. He tried to scramble to his feet, but slipped and fell back on his butt. By then it was too late. 

Jacket collar raised to shield his face, Elijah jumped off the stage, ran across the floor straight through the melee, and kept on going. With a sinking heart, Sean watched him push through the doors of the _salon_ and disappear.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epic fail? You decide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While the very basic plot line is the same, from here on out I diverge from the movie quite a lot in spirit and intent. It seems simplistic to make Empathicalism into a joke (goodness knows, empathy is badly needed in today's world) and Elijah completely misguided.

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v368/biinfc/Funny%20Face/?action=view&current=funny-face-wallpaper.png)

How did everything go so wrong so quickly? That was the question Sean asked himself as he squelched through the lobby of the _Meurice_ to the elevator. Only that morning, after the most incredible night of his entire life, he'd been holding Elijah in his arms and dreaming about a future with him, and now that future was in serious doubt. 

Sean got in the elevator, avoiding looking at himself in the mirrored back wall, and hit the button for his floor. He'd bungled matters as badly as they could possibly be bungled, and he had no idea if they could be set to rights. He wanted to believe that they could, but his relationship with Elijah wasn't a photo he could retouch. It was real life, messy and unpredictable. He wasn't in the darkroom now. 

The elevator rose silently upward, in direct opposition to Sean's feelings, that were lower than low. He'd hurt Elijah badly by implying it was only his looks that mattered to him, and in turn Elijah had hurt him badly by once again scorning Sean's work, calling it 'nonsense'. Okay, so maybe it wasn't Nobel Peace Prize, save the world stuff, but he, Cate, Ian, Andy, Marcel, Yves and Henri had busted their asses to create something beautiful and memorable. He'd thought Elijah got it, that he'd come to enjoy being a model and to value the dedication and teamwork that went into shooting the collection. He'd thought, in short, that Elijah empathized with them. Had it all been a lie?

With a _ding_ the elevator came to a stop at Sean's floor. He got out, continued squelching down the hall to his room and let himself in. Just inside the door he halted, for a thought had occurred to him, and a most unpleasant one at that. Elijah had made his scathing comment after being in the great Professor Whatsisname's company and discussing 'doing useful things together', the sorts of things that, presumably, didn't include fashion photography. Such a _volte face_ didn't seem coincidental, and a cascading sequence of unhappy thoughts followed him into the bathroom, where he stripped off his clammy clothes and rubbed his chill, damp skin with a warm, thick, fluffy towel. It should have been bliss, but he'd have traded it in a heartbeat for the tiny cramped bathroom at the hostel with its thin, coarse towels. 

Fuck. _Fuck._

The truth was that Elijah had said 'I love you' to Sean before meeting his idol, a man he'd worshiped for years, a man whose philosophy had shaped his life, a man who also happened to have an attractive exterior and a magnetic persona. Viggo Mortensen's total package was a knock-out. What if Elijah decided that he'd made a mistake? After all, he was very young and inexperienced, and he'd spent days in close proximity to Sean in the most romantic city in the world. It was enough to go to anyone's head, make him say things in the heat of the moment that he thought he meant but later realized he hadn't.

Which would be total and utter disaster, because Sean had meant every single word of what _he'd_ said, and he couldn't simply un-fall in love, go back to the old Sean whose most enduring relationship was with an inanimate object. Having had a taste of what real love was like, he wanted to feast on it for the rest of his life, not leave the banquet empty-handed and broken-hearted. 

But maybe he didn't have to leave the banquet empty-handed or broken-hearted. Out of the ashes of depression and doubt rose hope and determination. Sean hadn't gotten to where he was, the pinnacle of a very competitive profession, by giving up at the first setback. He had to believe that Elijah still felt the same and that all was not irreparably lost.

Shrugging into one of the hotel's luxurious monogrammed bathrobes, Sean made his way into the bedroom. He made a beeline for the bed, where he sank down on the sumptuous rose satin duvet, and reached for the phone. He called the youth hostel, but if Elijah was there, he wasn't answering. Sean called several more times while he got dressed, but with no better success. He contemplated going directly to the hostel, but if Elijah didn't want to talk to him, what were the odds he'd want to see him? Sean was pretty certain no magic trick, however impressive, was going to smooth things over this time.

Maybe a cooling off period would be wiser, he thought, and decided to go to the _salon_ instead. Elijah would be there in a few hours to model the collection anyway, and hopefully by then he'd have calmed down enough to be willing to accept Sean's apology and begin again.

When Sean arrived at the _salon_ , he found Cate and Ian sitting at a table drinking coffee and looking shell-shocked. She had her iPad in front of her and Ian his Blackberry. Around them, Ian's employees plus extra crew hired for the day were hustling, simultaneously clearing the godawful mess from the stage and getting things ready for the fashion show, scheduled to begin at eight o'clock. 

Sean dropped into an empty seat at the table and asked baldly, "So, how bad _is_ it?" On the ride over in his cab he'd checked his iPhone, and a truly frightening number of texts, emails and voicemail messages had already accumulated - enough to make him half wish that his phone hadn't survived the deluge. He'd opted not to look at or listen to any of them, having a very strong suspicion what they would contain. Besides, the only person he cared to hear from right now was the only person who wasn't going to be texting, emailing or leaving voicemail for him. 

In answer to his question, Cate held up the iPad. There on the screen, in all its lurid glory, was a photo of the stage, with Sean on his ass in the basin surrounded by fallen trees and pieces of the fountain, and Elijah cringing against the backdrop as water cascaded over him. The caption underneath read: _Ineffable Charm or Epic Fail at the Quality Man Launch? You Decide._

"Ouch." Sean winced. 

"Take my advice and _don't_ google 'Quality Man', at least not for the next century or so," replied Cate, and slipped the iPad into a monogrammed Louis Vuitton cover. "The only blessing is that most of the phones and cameras were ruined in the flood. It could be worse. Of course, we'll probably end up having to pay for all of them." She gave Sean a pointed look.

"It's bad enough, Cate," said Ian gloomily, staring at the screen of his phone as if it might bite him. "Everyone is laughing, on Twitter, on Facebook, you name it. God knows what the newspapers will say tomorrow."

"I'm not laughing," Sean said.

"I should think you wouldn't be, Sean. This is all your fault," Cate replied.

"I know it's my fault." Sean sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. "I screwed up big time, said and did some things I shouldn't have." Figuring he might as well come clean and face the music, he added, "I behaved like a jealous idiot over that Mortensen guy, and Elijah got mad at me. It was a lovers' quarrel."

"A _what_?" Cate exclaimed, looking incredulous, while Ian looked up from his phone and stared at him with equal incredulity. "You can't be serious - you and _that boy_?"

Sean huffed a laugh. Her reaction was about what he'd expected. "Why not?" he asked.

"It's impossible." Cate waved a dismissive hand. "You belong to the fashion world. Face it, we're a cold lot, artificial and totally lacking in sentiment. How can you possibly be in love?"

"I'm a black sheep," Sean joked.

Despite their 'history' together, Ian was far more interested in his clothes than in Sean's love life. "And what about me? What about my collection? If Elijah doesn't come tonight, I can't show it. Where will we ever find another model his size?" He slapped his palm on the table, making the china coffee cups and silver teaspoons rattle. "I am facing ruin, Sean. Ruin!" 

"Ian, don't worry," Sean replied soothingly. "Elijah will show up; he has integrity."

Cate's snort was a masterpiece of derision. "Oh, he's simply filled with virtues, isn't he? Only he isn't wasting any of them on _us_."

Sean opened his mouth to object, but at that moment Cate's cell phone rang. 

"Andy, what did you find out?" Cate demanded. She listened for a minute then said, "Oh he did, did he? Four times?" She shot an exasperated glance at Sean. More silence. "Oh _he_ did, did he? What was the message? Wait a moment, I want to write this down." 

"Cate, what's going on?" Sean was about to burst with frustration at the one-sided conversation.

"Shush," Cate said, removing a gold plated pen and a small notepad from her Dior purse. "Go ahead, Andy." She scribbled then said, "Got it. Bless you, you're a genius." Pause. "A raise? I'll think about it. Now get back here to the _salon_ asap." She disconnected.

"Cate..." Sean said impatiently.

"I sent Andy out to find Elijah," she explained. "He wasn't at the café so Andy went to the youth hostel, but he wasn't there either."

"Never mind where he wasn't, tell us where he is," Sean said impatiently.

"I'm getting there. Andy, ah, persuaded the desk clerk at the hostel to tell him if Elijah had gotten any telephone messages. He said," Cate went on dryly, "that someone named Sean Astin called four times." 

Sean's cheeks heated. 

"Someone else called Elijah, too, but only once: Viggo Mortensen."

Embarrassment vanished in a flash as another emotion elbowed it out of the way. "Mortensen called?" Sean exclaimed, jumping to his feet. "What did he want?" 

" _Having an evening of international philosophy, poetry, song, and meditation tonight at my home. Would be delighted if you would join us,_ " Cate read from the notepad. "Well, obviously that's where Elijah will be, if he's not there already."

"And not here, showing my collection?" Ian groaned and clutched at his hair. "That's it: I'm ruined, finished. I never should have agreed to give you an exclusive, Cate."

"Don't fly into a panic, Ian," Sean said. "Since this is my fault, I'll fix it. I'll go to Whatsis - I mean Mortensen's - and bring Elijah back here to show the collection. You have my word on it."

Cate picked up her purse and stood. "Maybe you'd better take along someone who isn't emotionally involved," she said, and tucked the purse under her arm. "For instance me."

Maybe it wasn't a bad idea for Cate to come with him at that. Not that it mattered if he thought it was the worst idea in the history of the world. As he'd said to Elijah what seemed a very long time ago, 'One never talks to Cate Blanchett. One only listens'. 

"All right, let's go," he said. Then a thought occurred to him. "But where are we going? I have no idea where Whatsis, I mean Mortensen, lives."

Cate flourished the notepad. "Already taken care of, thanks to Andy." 

"I owe that man another drink," Sean said, and they were off. 

~*~

Professor Mortensen's address was in _Le Marais_ , an area that Sean knew well. He'd spent considerable time over the years in the neighborhood that was the cultural hub of Paris's gay community, and had in fact been planning on taking Elijah to a favorite and very romantic restaurant there over the weekend. That the Professor lived in _Le Marais_ only rubbed salt in a very raw wound.

Their taxi pulled up in front of a two story _maison bourgeoise_ in Hauts-de-Seine, barely a stone's throw from the river. Empathy obviously paid very well, Sean thought sourly. Not that he himself was exactly poor, but the pay of a fashion photographer, even one as successful as he was, didn't run to houses like this. He reminded himself that Elijah, of all people, wasn't likely to be impressed by material wealth. But somehow it was small consolation.

"Nice," Cate remarked as they got out of the taxi.

"Yeah," Sean agreed with a decided lack of enthusiasm.

"Now, now," she said, patting Sean on the arm. "There's more to life than money and a fancy house - although what, I'm sure I can't say."

"Gee thanks, Cate, I feel so much better now."

Leaving the taxi idling at the curb, in hopes that they would soon be returning with Elijah in tow, they went through the front door, which was standing ajar. 

"Trusting folk, these Empathicalists," observed Cate.

As they walked down a hallway laid with diamond pattern black and white tiles, the wall on the left caught Sean's attention. It was covered with photographs, most in black and white, and his eye was immediately drawn to them. Professional curiosity had him stopping to take a closer look. He didn't recognize the style, but whoever had taken them was talented indeed. He searched for the photographer's signature, and found it in the lower right corner: V. Mortensen. 

Well, fuck, Sean thought. Not only gorgeous, intellectual and wealthy, but also artistic. A quadruple threat. Damn the man.

At the end of the hallway a door opened onto a spacious living room filled with exquisite artwork and decorated with vintage Danish Modern furniture that had Cate saying admiringly, "Well, everyone's favorite Empathicalist certainly has good taste. That's an Ole Wanscher chair and sofa over there." 

To which Sean replied _sotto voce_ with some exasperation, "Cate, would you please shut up?"

"Sorry, darling. If I can find a fault with the man, I'll be sure to point it out."

Sean ground his teeth.

A large crowd was already in residence, many young and dressed in retro hippy style. Empathicalists, Sean noted, appeared to favor peasant blouses, tie dye and peace symbols. Also scruff. Every young man present sported it to one degree or another. But there were people present of all ages, races and colors, and it struck Sean that, whatever his personal feelings about Mortensen, Empathicalism was clearly both popular and universal.

The Ole Wanscher sofa was empty, the majority of the guests opting to sit on throw cushions on the parquet floor, so, not certain yet what the best course of action was, he sat down and Cate took a seat beside him. Around them, people were talking animatedly in a variety of languages, or singing, or playing the guitar, or sitting in lotus position meditating. It struck him that not a single person had a cell phone in hand. No one was texting or emailing - they were too busy engaging with others face to face. There was a vibrant energy in the room, he discovered, the kind he was used to finding during a particularly productive and challenging photo shoot. The air fairly crackled with it.

"A lively bunch, aren't they?" Cate remarked, obviously sensing it, too. "What on earth do they find to talk about?"

"I have no idea," Sean said, and he realized that he'd never discussed Empathicalism seriously with Elijah. After the incident at the café, he'd assumed it was a bunch of bunkum and Elijah foolishly naive. In short, he'd been dismissive, almost contemptuous, of something in which Elijah believed passionately, even referring to it as 'small talk'. Maybe he'd been hurt by Elijah putting down his work, but wasn't he guilty of the same crime? It wasn't a comfortable realization for a man who had always prided himself on being open-minded. Here was some serious food for thought, but not right now. Right now Elijah's whereabouts were a more pressing concern. He was nowhere in the living room, and neither was Mortensen, who should have been front and center. Coincidence? Sean sure hoped so.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, Sean caught sight of a familiar form entering the room. It was Elijah, and with him was Viggo Mortensen. Fuck. Both men were casually dressed in jeans and tee shirts and their feet were bare. Deep down, Sean had nurtured a secret hope that Elijah wasn't at the Professor's, that he and Cate had embarked on a wild goose chase that would end back at the _salon_ where they'd discover Elijah being readied to show Ian's collection. No such luck, it seemed, and those bare feet spoke volumes. This wasn't a fleeting visit; Elijah clearly had no intention of fulfilling his responsibility to Cate, to Ian, to everyone involved in the show. Anger stirred inside Sean then. Yes, he'd fucked up big time, but Elijah had no right to punish everyone else and cause them real financial and professional hardship. 

As Mortensen led Elijah up a staircase to their left, Sean discreetly elbowed Cate and said, "Ooklay up the airstay." Even as they watched, Mortensen held open a door at the top of the stairs, and Elijah passed through, followed by the Professor, who shut the door behind them. What was on the other side of that door? Sean wondered. He didn't dare to imagine. He just knew he had to get Elijah out of there as soon as possible.

"Let's go," he said, jumping to his feet. 

Moving with studied casualness, Sean made his way toward the staircase with Cate following close behind, hoping that no one would notice them or try to interfere if they did. And then, just when he thought they'd made good their escape, as if at some unspoken signal, everyone stood up. Uh-oh, he thought. Were he and Cate busted? About to suffer death by empathy?

Then Sean was startled when a smiling middle-aged Asian woman reached out and took his hand just as Cate's hand was taken by an elderly Scandinavian man. In moments, a human chain had formed, with each person linked to those on either side. Utterly at sea, Sean concluded there was nothing for it but to go along with whatever was happening, and he took hold of Cate's free hand. 

"What's this all about?" Cate muttered out of the corner of her mouth, sounding alarmed.

"No idea," Sean muttered back.

"Well, if it's some kind of group marriage ceremony, we're getting a divorce as soon as it's over," she said. "No offense, darling, but we'd drive each other mad within a month."

"Now we will sing," declared a young West Indian woman standing opposite Sean.

Not a group marriage ceremony then, but a sing-a-long. He hadn't done one of those since his long ago days at summer camp. The circle started swaying back and forth, the young woman hummed a note, and then she began to sing: " _Imagine there's no heaven, it's easy if you try..._ " Immediately everyone joined in. " _No hell below us, above us only sky. Imagine all the people, living for today..._

Of course, Sean thought, what better anthem for Empathicalists than John Lennon's _Imagine_? 

Sean tried to find the experience amusing or ridiculous, but he couldn't. Instead, he found it deeply moving, almost spiritual. He found himself remembering his idealistic youth, when he planned on becoming a photojournalist whose pictures would change the world. Elijah's pricks at his soft underbelly had first reminded him of those forgotten ideals. Now they were even more present, and he felt something like regret that he'd turned his back on them all those years ago.

Beside him, Cate was swaying up a storm, singing her heart out in a rich, beautiful alto. She was caught up in the emotion of the moment, too. Sean wondered what youthful ideals she was remembering - assuming she'd had them, of course. But she knew every word to the song. Amazing.

" _You may say I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one. I hope someday you'll join us, and the world will live as one..._ "

The song ended not with applause but a respectful silence, and at that moment, Sean felt an undeniable bond with every person in the room. Though he didn't know a single name save one, it was as if he knew them anyway, on some deeper level. He stole a glance at Cate, and she actually had tears her in eyes. Now _that_ had to be a first.

When the circle broke up and people returned to their cushions and conversations, Cate sniffed and wiped her eyes and then said with a ferocious frown, "If you ever dare to breathe so much as a single word about this to _anyone_ , Sean, I _swear_..." 

"Don't worry," Sean said. "Your reputation as a cold, artificial fashionista totally lacking in sentiment is safe with me. Now come on, let's get upstairs." The urgency to find Elijah came back in a rush. He'd been alone with Mortensen for far too long.

No one paid the least attention as they made their way up the stairs. When they got to the top, they paused outside the closed door. Sean leaned in and listened.

"Only you can fulfill the intellectual potential that is so sorely lacking in my country," he heard Elijah say. That was better than what he'd feared Elijah might be saying, at any rate, Sean thought, grasping the doorknob. 

"Well, here goes nothing," he said, and barged straight in without knocking, Cate hard on his heels. They were in what appeared to be Mortensen's study. "Ah, so there you are, Elijah," he said, affecting a breezy manner. 'Breezy' lasted all of two seconds, disappearing the instant his eyes fell on Mortensen ensconced on a squashy sofa in front of a crackling fire, and Elijah literally sitting at his idol's bare feet.

At the sight of Sean, Elijah scrambled up, looking not only startled but very displeased. "What are _you_ doing here?" he demanded, setting his hands on his narrow hips. "And why on earth did you bring _her_?"

"I do have a name, you know," remarked Cate tartly.

"What do you think I'm doing here?" Sean shot back, the 'we are the world, we are the children' mood vanishing before the scorn in Elijah's eyes. "You're supposed to be at Ian's _salon_ to model his collection." He glanced at his watch. "The show starts in less than an hour."

Mortensen got up more slowly. He appeared very puzzled indeed. "Elijah, what is going on?" he asked, looking from Sean to Cate and back again. 

"Nothing," Elijah said dismissively. "These people are just about to leave, Professor. They have no business being here and I have no business with them."

"Oh you don't, do you?" Sean exclaimed, his blood pressure rising.

"No. I'm done with you lot. So go away." Elijah crossed his arms on his chest and glared.

Any hope Sean had of holding onto his temper vanished at 'you lot'. He strode around the sofa and got right up in Elijah's face. "It's about time you woke up to some of your responsibilities, Elijah," he said angrily. "You know that Ian can't show the collection without you. Regardless of what you feel about me, you can't do this to him and all the other people involved."

"Hundreds of people," interjected Cate.

"I'm no more interested in your people than you are in mine," Elijah said scornfully, turning his blue death glare on her.

After the real and honest connection Sean had felt with 'Elijah's people' downstairs only a short time ago, after his private admission that he'd been too dismissive of Empathicalism, after seeing actual tears in Cate Blanchett's eyes, Elijah couldn't possibly have said anything more ill-advised or inflammatory. 

"Is that so? Well, your brand of empathy is a little one-sided for me, sweetheart," Sean said in disgust.

Elijah flinched. "Would you please leave now?" he said with icy dignity. "Professor Mortensen and I wish to be alone."

Oh, what was the point? Sean thought. It was hopeless. Let Elijah be alone with the sainted Professor Whatsisname and find out for himself what the man was really interested in. He was done, through. "Fine," he said, throwing up his hands. "I'm outta here." And he turned and stalked away.

"I assume you mean me, too," said Cate, and hurried after him.

Outside on the street, she said in exasperation, "Well, you sure fixed things, didn't you? Couldn't you have tried a little of that _imagine all the people living life in peace_ on Elijah instead of starting World War 3 in there?"

Sean was in no mood for humor. He yanked open the taxi door and said, "Tell Ian that I'm sorry. I'll make it up to him somehow, I promise."

"Where are you going?" Cate demanded.

"There's a plane leaving for New York at ten thirty, and I'm going to be on it." Sean huffed a bitter laugh. "I meant to cancel my reservation and stay in Paris with Elijah. What with one thing and another I never got around to it. Good thing, huh?" He climbed in and closed the door. "The _Meurice_ , Rue de Rivoli," he said, "and step on it."

The taxi pulled away, leaving Cate spluttering on the sidewalk.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elijah shows up at the salon to show the collection only to discover Sean has left for New York.

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v368/biinfc/Funny%20Face/?action=view&current=funny-face-wallpaper.png)

When the door closed behind Cate, Elijah pinned a determined smile on his face and said to Professor Mortensen, "Now that they're gone, we can get back to what we were discussing. I'm sorry they barged in that way, Professor." He really wanted to collapse to the floor, bury his head in his arms and weep, but he couldn't do that, not in front of Professor Mortensen.

The Professor was staring at the door with a pensive expression on his face. "What we should discuss is what just happened here, Elijah," he said slowly.

"That's not necessary," Elijah said quickly. The last thing on earth he wanted to do was rehash the ugly scene that had left him with his stomach tied in knots and on the verge of tears. When Sean had called him 'sweetheart' in that sarcastic voice, so different from how he'd spoken the endearment last night, he'd broken through Elijah's hastily cobbled together defenses and stabbed him straight in the heart. 

"I disagree. Please, sit down." It was less request than command.

Reluctantly, Elijah sank down on the leather sofa, and Professor Mortensen sat beside him, turned slightly towards him. "Tell me what that was about," he said. "What did Mr. Astin mean when he said that... Ian, is it?" Elijah nodded. "That Ian cannot show the collection without you?"

Elijah sighed. "I'm a model," he confessed, hoping the Professor wouldn't think it too frivolous of him. "A fashion model. I originally took the job because it meant I could come to Paris and meet you. I was supposed to show Ian McKellen's clothes tonight at eight o'clock at his _salon_."

"But instead you came here. Why?"

"Because..." Elijah flushed. Suddenly his reasons, that had seemed perfectly valid at the time, appeared lame and childish in the extreme. There was no getting around it: he'd only accepted the Professor's invitation as a means of punishing Sean. "Because I had a fight with Sean and I was angry at him. I wanted to hurt him the way he hurt me."

"I see." The Professor tapped his lips with a forefinger a few times in a contemplative manner then he said, "And did hurting him make you feel better?"

Elijah looked down at his lap, at his hands twisted tightly together. "No," he admitted. "It made me feel terrible." Hurting Sean only hurt him, he'd discovered; there was no satisfaction to be gained from it. Besides, in his heart of hearts he knew Sean hadn't meant what he said about not being interested in Elijah's intellect. 

"So. He is hurting and you are hurting. Would it not have been better to put yourself in his place before becoming angry with him and fighting? To try and understand why he was upset?" The Professor spoke gently, but a reproof was inherent in his words. After all, he claimed to be an Empathicalist, didn't he?

Elijah felt the reproof deeply, but he raised his head and said, "But Professor, Sean said the most ridiculous things about you. Things that are completely untrue."

"What things did he say?" 

"That you..." Elijah hesitated, reluctant to reveal Sean's insane theory. Professor Mortensen was regarding him expectantly, though, and after all, he was the one who had brought it up. "Well, that you don't look at me the way a philosopher would but the way a man would - a man who is attracted to me, I mean. I know it's absurd, but Sean actually believes it."

Surprisingly the Professor smiled, a rueful smile. "I very much fear you will be shocked and disappointed then to learn that he's right."

Elijah stared at him, wide-eyed. "He- he's _right_?" he uttered faintly. "Professor Mortensen, you can't be serious. You and _me_?" 

It was mind-boggling, the very thought. Objectively Elijah acknowledged that the Professor was good-looking, if not his type, but, well, he was the Father of Empathicalism and way older than he was. Elijah's interest in him was purely as the philosopher whose books and theories had nourished and inspired him.

The rueful smile deepened. "Why not? I am, as Sean said, a man - very much a man - and you _are_ attractive, Elijah, the most attractive young man I've ever had the fortune to meet," Professor Mortensen said. "If matters had gone as I planned this evening, I was hoping that soon you would stop calling me Professor and start calling me Viggo."

"Oh. I- I had no idea." What an idiot he'd been, Elijah thought in despair. Sean, with his greater knowledge and experience of the world, had seen the truth immediately, he'd tried to tell him, but Elijah had stubbornly refused to listen and now look where it had landed him. He owed Professor Mortensen absolute honesty, however, and so he said, "The thing is, you see, I'm in love with Sean." That he had ever lost sight of that truth, even for a minute, seemed incredible now. "I'm sorry."

"There is no need to be sorry, dear Elijah. I could wish that I had met you sooner," said the Professor, "but such is life." He gave a Gallic shrug. "The heart, after all, does not do our bidding but has a mind entirely its own, and yours has chosen Sean. He is a lucky man."

"I'm sure he doesn't feel lucky right now," Elijah said sadly, picturing the disgust on Sean's face as he'd thrown up his hands in defeat and stormed off. 

"Then you must do something about it, mustn't you."

Elijah stared. Of course. Why was he sitting here like a lump when he should be going after Sean and telling him he loved him - before it was too late. "Oh Professor, you're right. I have to find him straight away. He thinks I don't want anything to do with him anymore." Elijah leapt to his feet, consumed by that one thought: to find Sean. 

But then abruptly he sobered. "No, I can't do that. Not yet. There's something else I have to do first - go to the _salon_ and show Ian's collection. Sean was right about that, too. I have a responsibility to Cate and everyone else." He thought about Yves and Henri, who had been so nice to him, about Marcel who had taught him how to play tennis, about Ian, who had designed an entire collection just for him, and lastly about Cate, who despite her autocratic ways was at heart, he knew, a decent person. "They need me, and I can't let them down."

Mortensen stood up. "Spoken like a true Empathicalist. I am proud of you."

Elijah flushed. "I'm afraid I've been a very bad Empathicalist lately, but I'm going to try to do better, I swear. Thank you for your guidance and for being so very kind." He held out his hand.

"Being kind to you is no hardship," the Professor said, taking his hand and looking down at him with a wry smile. "I should have liked to be even kinder."

"I'm sorry, I truly am," Elijah replied. "But the invitation still stands, Professor: you're more than welcome to stay with me and my uncle if you visit New York."

"Then I shall certainly take you up on it when I go there," Professor Mortensen replied, and released Elijah's hand. "And now you had better go, or you'll be late for the fashion show."

Elijah consulted his watch. "Oh shit. It's almost eight o'clock already! Good-bye, Professor, and thank you again." And off he went at a run, without so much as a thought for the sneakers and socks he was leaving behind.

Viggo Mortensen stood staring at the empty doorway for a few minutes, seeing penetrating blue eyes and pondering the strange workings of fate, then he let out a regretful sigh, shrugged his shoulders again, and went downstairs to join his guests.

~*~

Ian strode into the back room looking very agitated. "They are getting restless," he said. "I don't know how much longer we can stall, Cate. We should have started the show half an hour ago. I need to make an announcement. But what should I say?"

Cate threw up her hands. "Tell them they can go home, Ian. Blame it all on me," she said, but hardly had the words left her mouth when Elijah came flying barefoot into the room.

"I'm sorry I'm late," he panted.

The instant he came to a halt he was surrounded by Alain, Yves and Henri, who immediately set to work undressing him.

"Oh thank god," Cate said, leaning on the back of a chair as if too weak to stand.

Ian beamed beatifically. "I knew you wouldn't let us down, Elijah. I knew you'd come. I must go and announce that we will be starting in a few minutes." He disappeared.

Cate's outraged look followed him. "Knew you'd come? Honestly, that man-" 

But Elijah interrupted her. "Is Sean here?" he asked as he slipped his arms into the crisp white dress shirt that Alain held at the ready.

"No, he's on the way to the airport," Cate said. "You told him to leave and he's leaving."

"Oh no. He _can't_." Elijah stepped out of his jeans and into the seersucker slacks. He appeared devastated. "Isn't there some way to stop him? Get a message to him?"

"Let me see what I can do."

"Thank you," Elijah said then added humbly, "I don't deserve for you to help me after the way I behaved at Professor Mortensen's house."

"Now that's quite enough of that," Cate admonished him. "Sackcloth and ashes definitely aren't your style, Elijah. I far prefer your snark. Besides, I want to help you - I can put myself in your place. I know you'll find that hard to believe, but I can."

"Cate, that's empathy," Elijah said, holding up a foot so Alain could slide on sock and shoe.

"Good heavens, is it? Well why on earth didn't you ever say so? Absurdly simple, once one understands the concept. Now just you concentrate on showing the collection and leave Sean to me." She pulled her cell phone out of the pocket of her severely tailored black Dior suit and started hitting buttons.

Andy helped Elijah into his vest and suit jacket while Henri wielded the powder puff, Yves combed his hair and Alain fixed his tie. 

"How long before we can begin?" Ian asked, poking his head through the door to the stage.

"I'm ready," Elijah said, and went to join him.

A few moments later, a very posh woman's voice could be heard saying: "Monsieurs et Madames, we are proud to bring you a new collection by Ian McKellen, inspired by the Quality Man, chosen to represent the great American fashion magazine, _Quality_."

Mozart started to play, followed shortly by a ripple of clapping that swelled into loud applause.

Cate sighed and lowered her phone. "He's not answering his cell. Andy, get me the number of the _Meurice_. I might catch him there before he leaves for the airport."

Ten minutes later, Elijah reappeared, and as he hurried over to where Alain had his next outfit at the ready, he asked anxiously, "Did you get him?"

"Not yet. His phone must not working and the hotel said he just left so I didn't get him there. But there's nothing to worry about, Elijah. I'm sure I'll reach him at the airport."

Elijah was whipped into black leather pants and a see-through blouse, his feet left bare and his hair disarranged. "Please hurry," he begged, and then he was gone.

~*~

Back and forth Elijah went, switching outfits so fast it made his head spin, and every time he walked down the runway, it was to an increasingly enthusiastic reception from the crowd. The show was a triumph, redeeming Cate, Ian and _Quality Magazine_ completely from the fiasco earlier in the day. He was sensible of his own success, but far prouder of the fact that he'd come through for the people who had put their faith in him. 

At the same time, however, he felt oddly remote from it all: from the applause, the admiring stares, the click and flash of innumerable cameras photographing him as he walked with head held high and posed at the end of the runway. His mind was on Sean, getting ready to board a flight back to New York - the flight he'd said he was going to cancel, but obviously never had. It was a discouraging thought.

Every time Elijah hurried to the back room to change his clothes, he only grew more and more discouraged. Cate was putting a good face on it, blaming her failure to get in touch with Sean on airport miscommunication or a problem with his phone. Elijah wanted to believe her, but he couldn't. It was far more likely that Sean was ignoring the messages because he didn't want to talk to Elijah.

Finally there was only one outfit left to model: the wedding tuxedo that he'd been wearing when he and Sean declared their love for one another at the church by the lake. As Elijah hurried into the dressing room, stripping off his fingerless gloves, he asked, "Is there any news?" The clock on the wall read 10:18.

The answer was written all over Cate's face. But she said, "It's not too late, Elijah. Even if he's boarded the plane already, he can still use his cell phone."

Elijah unwound the olive wool scarf from his neck and handed it to Yves. "It's sweet of you, Cate, but you and I both know it's not going to happen. He's leaving and I can't blame him. I hurt him too much." If only he'd put himself in Sean's place earlier, Elijah thought, when it might have done some good. _Too late, too late_ , his mind cried.

The mood in the room was subdued as Elijah was helped into the tuxedo. Yves was suspiciously bright-eyed, and Henri sniffled several times, and no pink roses appeared like magic for Elijah to wear as a boutonniere.

"You look fabulous," Cate said, but the words sounded forced. "Now go out there and give 'em the ol' _pizzazz_ ," she added with less than her usual verve.

"I'll try," Elijah said bravely, and left.

"And now," the announcer said as Elijah stepped into a golden pool of light, and a gasp went up from the crowd, "the finale of the collection: wedding day." 

The Wedding March started to play, and Elijah advanced down the runway with steady, measured strides, like a groom approaching the altar where his bride awaited him. As he went, the audience rose to its feet in a standing ovation. At the end of the runway, he stopped and posed, and a man said to the person next to him, "I thought it was only brides who cried on their wedding day."

~*~

The A train was packed with commuters heading into Lower Manhattan. Elijah was uncomfortably squashed between two much larger men, but he didn't mind. It was easier to escape notice in a crowd. Which was weird as fuck, because never in a million years had he ever imagined that it would be necessary for him, Elijah Wood, philosopher, book store clerk, reluctant model, to escape anyone's notice. 

From across the subway car, a pair of very familiar blue eyes stared at him, eyes as familiar to him as his own. That's because they _were_ his own eyes, and they were staring at him from the cover of a copy of _Quality Magazine_ that a young woman was reading.

Elijah looked away. Talk about unnerving. He still wasn't used to his growing fame, and not at all comfortable with it. The first time someone had stopped him on the street and said, "Hey, aren't you that Quality Man guy?" then proceeded to ask him for an autograph, he'd practically died of shock. But with his face splashed across billboards in the city and along the sides of buses, not to mention the copies of _Quality_ prominently displayed at every news stand in the city, it was impossible to avoid it. He couldn't get away from his own image; his enormous blue bug eyes seemed to follow him wherever he went these days.

He took to wearing over-sized glasses with dark lenses to hide his distinctive eyes, and that helped some. He wanted to regrow his scruff, but Cate strictly forbid it - "Not until we're done with the promotion for this issue" - and he grudgingly went along with her dictum. Just as he grudgingly went along with the press conferences and the parties and the interviews. He couldn't wait to get his old life back, he told himself.

Which was a lie, of course. He didn't want his old life back, because it was a life without Sean. Sean, whom he hadn't seen or spoken to since the awful night at Professor Mortensen's when he'd told him to leave and he had.

Despite himself, Elijah's gaze returned to the magazine Elijah. The photo that had been chosen for the cover was from the shoot in the Bois de Boulogne, but cropped so that only his head and neck were visible. "Marvelous, simply marvelous," Cate had enthused when the cover was unveiled at a ceremony at the magazine's offices, and apparently the world at large agreed. It was the fastest selling issue in the history of _Quality_ , she'd informed Elijah. "It's that 'come hither' look in your eyes," she said. "Men and women both - they all want to sleep with you, Elijah, and that's good business for us."

Well, Elijah didn't want to sleep with any of them. Had he wanted to, offers were thick on the ground from men and women both, starting with Bret, the receptionist but by no means ending there. But the 'come hither' look in his eyes had been meant for Sean alone. He felt a stab of pain whenever he recalled that magical week in Paris, and especially the magical night that he and Sean had spent together. It was looking more and more likely that it would never be repeated, for Sean had made no attempt to get in touch with him, and when Elijah, swallowing his pride, finally asked Cate if she'd heard from him or knew where he was, she only said, "He's out of town." Whatever that meant. He didn't have the heart to badger her; it was plain that she knew something, but it must be bad if she wouldn't share it with him.

The train started to slow with a lurch and a squeal of brakes and Elijah got up. He shuffled out of the subway car with the rest of the people getting off at the stop, and made his way along labyrinthine corridors until he eventually reached the stairs to the street. As he climbed them, the recently purchased iPhone in his pocket vibrated. He checked the display; it was a text from Uncle Ian. 

_Don't forget to bring home that copy of **De Rerum Natura** for Cate._

Elijah sighed and stuck the phone back in his pocket. If being asked for his autograph was a shock, that was nothing to the shock he'd gotten one morning a couple weeks earlier when he came downstairs to the kitchen for breakfast and discovered Cate sitting at the kitchen table in a peacock blue silk robe and reading a book on psychopiscoparalysm. 

"Be a dear and pour me another cup of coffee, would you?" she'd said, holding out her coffee mug to him as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

"What in the world are you doing here?" Elijah had demanded.

Before she could answer, Uncle Ian had come into the kitchen, also wearing a bathrobe, although his was an indeterminate muddy gray color and somewhat threadbare. He'd turned rather red when he saw Elijah, and said, "Well, well," several times, but Cate had only laughed and pulled him in for a, as she put it, 'good morning kiss'.

It was bizarre beyond belief, but Uncle Ian and Cate were now a _thing_ , and she was rapidly becoming a fixture in the Brooklyn brownstone. It had all come about when he dragged Uncle Ian, kicking and protesting, to the party launching the Quality Man issue of the magazine. Elijah had wanted his uncle to see that not everyone in the fashion industry was evil incarnate, but he'd had an ulterior motive, too: the unholy amusement he hoped to derive from introducing him to Cate. He deserved to get his own back a little for the incident in _Embryo Concepts_ , after all, and in Sean's absence, it was likely to be the only enjoyment he got from the evening.

Predictably, sparks had flown between the two of them, and they'd ended up spending almost the entire evening arguing vociferously about philosophy and fashion. But apparently those weren't the only kind of sparks that had been generated.

Now Uncle Ian had a brand spanking new iPhone of his own and he'd even started 'twittering', as he liked to call it. Shock aside, Elijah was truly happy for him, but this startling development had also started him thinking seriously about finding his own place. He could afford it with the money he'd earned as the Quality Man, and though he'd grudgingly come to respect and even like Cate, the thought of living with her was kind of terrifying. Too, the constant billing and cooing was a little much to take when his own romantic hopes had been so thoroughly dashed.

As he trod down the sidewalk to _Embryo Concepts_ , Elijah decided that he'd start investigating apartments in the Village, closer to the store, right away. It was time he was living on his own anyway. He was an adult now, after all.

But somehow the excitement he should be feeling at his declaration of independence was lacking as Elijah inserted the key in the door lock and let himself into the book store. He was still struggling to conquer the workings of the new computer system that had replaced the ancient cash register, for one thing. And for another, though he still embraced Empathicalism wholeheartedly, the truth was that he missed modeling. It had been fun, the dressing up, the playing pretend. By contrast, _Embryo Concepts_ seemed darker and dimmer and more lifeless than ever.

Of course, offers for future modeling assignments were as thick on the ground as other kinds of offers, but Elijah was only interested in modeling if it meant he was working with Sean. It was driving Cate mad, his obstinacy in turning down plum offers from the world's top designers, photographers and magazines, but he didn't care. None of it meant anything without Sean there to tease and cajole and do magic tricks, to turn the process into a flight of the imagination.

Elijah raised the blind over the window, turned around the CLOSED sign to read OPEN, and flipped on the light switch. Then he drew the strap of his messenger bag over his head... and froze in disbelief at the sight that met his wondering eyes. Dropping his bag on the floor, he moved slowly forward, half-tempted to pinch himself lest he be having a particularly bizarre and vivid dream.

Overnight the store had been transformed into a photography exhibit. Framed photos were _everywhere_ : propped against the books, resting on the sofa and chairs, and leaning against lamp stands and railings. Though some were black and white and some color, though some were large and some small, the photos shared one thing in common. From the redwoods of California to the paper birches of New England to the mangroves of Florida and seemingly everywhere in between, the photos were all of trees.

Trees?

Elijah put a hand to his forehead. "What the fuck?" he said aloud, and just about jumped out of his skin when a voice spoke from behind him.

"You told me the first time we met that I should photograph trees," the voice, _Sean's_ voice, said. "So I took your advice and did."

Hardly daring to believe the evidence of his own ears, Elijah whirled around. And there Sean was, standing at the top of the spiral staircase where once Orlando had stood in a white suit and teal scarf. 

"Sean!" he cried out joyfully. 

Sean swung his leg over the metal railing encircling the staircase and hopped down. "Trees make excellent subjects, by the way," he said, walking toward Elijah. "They never move at inopportune moments, talk back, or complain about the weather."

"Oh Sean." Elijah was caught between laughter and tears.

Sean came to a halt in front of Elijah. His dear face looked tired, the lines at the corners of his green-gold eyes and bracketing his mouth deeply graven, but to Elijah it could never be less than beautiful. "They do have one huge drawback, though. They aren't you. Elijah, I bitterly regret acting like such a jealous fool," he said quietly. "I'm so sorry for hurting you. Can you forgive me?"

"Of course I forgive you," Elijah said, and the tears were definitely winning now. "I didn't exactly cover myself in glory that night, Sean, and I need you to forgive me, too."

"Much as I'd like to argue with you about who's more to blame, I think we've done enough arguing." Sean huffed a laugh, and the characteristic, so missed sound had a tear slipping free to run down Elijah's cheek. Sean stroked it away with his thumb. "Don't cry, Funny Face. Let's kiss and make up instead, okay?"

"Yes!" With a sob, Elijah threw his arms around Sean's neck and clung to him, finally accepting that he was real, he was back, and he still loved him. When their lips met in the promised kiss, Elijah tasted salt, and he didn't know if it came from his tears or Sean's. 

"I was so afraid I'd never see you again," Elijah said when they finally came back to earth. "Cate wouldn't tell me where you were or how to get in touch with you." 

"I asked her not to," admitted Sean. "At first I was too bitter and angry, and then after Viggo's call, I was too ashamed. I needed time to think, to forgive myself before I could ask you to forgive me."

Elijah thought he was hearing things. "Did you say 'Viggo'? You mean, Professor _Mortensen_?" he said in disbelief.

Sean huffed another laugh. "The very one. He called me a few days after I got home. Could have knocked me over with a feather when he identified himself."

Elijah goggled. "But what he did want?"

"To apologize, first of all. He said he never would have, er, put the moves on you if he'd known we were involved. I thought that was pretty big of him under the circumstances. He's a decent guy, your Professor."

"He is," Elijah said, thinking of his conversation with the Professor and how well he'd taken Elijah's rejection, even encouraging Elijah to make things up with Sean.

"Of course, he also ripped me up one side and down the other for being an insensitive clod and said I'd do well to take up Empathicalism," Sean added with a rueful smile.

Elijah giggled. "We've got shelves full of books on it here," he said. "Help yourself."

"Free of charge?" Sean joked, but then he sobered. "When Viggo was done lecturing me, he told me some of the things you said to him after I left, the most important being that you still loved me. Well, that changed everything, Elijah. Cate told me that you showed up at the _salon_ to show the collection, but as far as I was concerned, that didn't prove you still cared about me. I was convinced I'd completely blown it with you. Viggo gave me reason to hope for the first time that there still might be a chance for me."

"Then why didn't you come and see me right away?" Elijah asked, puzzled. "Why did you wait so long?"

"Because I needed to prove to myself and to you that I wasn't a hot-headed jerk who couldn't trust you to be out of my sight. So I took off and started shooting trees until I finally made peace with myself. Then I came straight here to throw myself on your mercy and hope you'd take me back."

"Oh Sean, it wasn't necessary, but I love you for it, for caring so much." Elijah hugged him. "And I'm glad the Professor called you and you've become friends."

"So am I," said Sean in heartfelt tones. "By the way," he added casually, but in the nature of one who knows he's dropping a bombshell, "I promised Viggo that he and Ian can stay with us when they're here next fall for his photography exhibit. The guy's an amazing photographer and I offered to help set something up for him."

The implication that they'd be living together barely registered with Elijah. "Wha- did you say Viggo and _Ian_?" He was as flabbergasted as Sean could possibly have wished.

Sean grinned. "I guess Viggo went over to Ian's _salon_ to see if he could find out anything about my whereabouts and how to contact me, and ran smack dab into Ian. The rest, as they say, is history."

"And here I thought Uncle Ian and Cate were an unlikely pair," Elijah said faintly, trying to picture the refined, oh-so-British fashion designer in a romantic relationship with the Father of Empathicalism. "Did you know about them?"

"How do you think I got the key for the store?" Sean asked. "I'm still reeling from the shock, though."

Elijah couldn't help it; he started to laugh. "I know- can you believe it? Oh Sean, I have _so_ much to tell you - about Uncle Ian and Cate and, oh, _everything_."

"But not right now," Sean said in a husky voice. "Right now, I'm more interested in practicing my Empathicalist skills on you. Hmm, let me just put myself in your place... Ah, got it!"

And while Elijah watched with approving eyes, Sean strode to the door and locked it, yanked down the shade, and flipped the OPEN sign back to CLOSED.

End


End file.
